


And The Fever When I’m Beside Him

by scriggly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Watersports, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriggly/pseuds/scriggly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the future a couple of months after His Last Vow. Title borrowed from U2. Unbetaed and unedited, so my sincerest apologies for all the mistakes, plotholes, and general chaos.
> 
> John's heart will be broken here. Mary will be viciously bashed. Please heed the warning.
> 
> I own nothing except my imagination.

 

Mycroft is itching to leave 221b. Correction: He wants to take his brother and leave. A ridiculous notion, not only because he and Sherlock have only just arrived about ten minutes ago but also because the party is _for_ his brother. 

Mrs Hudson hands him a glass of champagne. He watches Sherlock’s graceful fingers wrap around the glass he's accepted from John, an easy, beautiful smile on Sherlock's lips. Watches John’s fingers linger a fraction too long.

The stem of Mycroft’s glass digs painfully into his hand. 

He tears his eyes away. Glasses clink repeatedly. Mycroft is grateful he’s at the very edge of this mess of human merriment.

“To Sherlock!” 

“To staying out of jail!” 

“And not murdering anyone else!” 

“Not in front of witnesses, at least!” John’s attempt at humour earns him several glares. He’s oblivious, eyes glued on Sherlock’s face, Mycroft notes resentfully. Mrs Hudson and the guests exchange knowing glances, all of them smiling. Encouraging. As if it’s inevitable. 

The worst part is they are probably right. 

Sherlock is finally free. The British government was so relieved the Moriarty wannabe had been thwarted after two months of near misses, kidnappings, and amateurish terrorism that Sherlock was granted a royal pardon for murdering Magnussen. John is also free, finally divorced _and_ without baggage. Even a noble victim to some (to Sherlock, probably, Mycroft thinks bitterly), after his wife turned out to have blackmailed lab technicians to cover a fake pregnancy and was caught red-handed meeting a wanted Bolivian newborn trafficker. 

Everyone had rushed to console John. Morstan was a bad woman solely for faking a pregnancy. None of them could manage to remember that she had shot Sherlock… Mycroft clamps down on the familiar rage. If it were up to him, she would’ve been tortured for weeks. Months. No prison can be punishment enough for killing his brother, if only for the few moments Sherlock had flatlined. 

He glances at his little brother, very much alive and well. Relief ripples around Sherlock, mixed with something else Mycroft can’t put his finger on. Sherlock looks… _serene._ Not a word most people would associate with his brother, but then most people are idiots. He would attribute it to Sherlock getting his life back together, but this is not the first time this… thing Mycroft can’t decipher has crossed his little brother’s handsome features… He’s seen it increasingly throughout the past month, Mycroft realises. 

Sherlock turns unexpectedly and catches Mycroft’s eye. He raises his glass; Mycroft mirrors the gesture. Sherlock’s lips glisten with a few lingering drops. Fierce desire over a decade old curls in Mycroft’s stomach. 

His eyes stray back to John, who is darting mesmerised glances at Sherlock’s moist lips as well. John follows Sherlock’s gaze suspiciously, openly hostile. When he finds the recipient of Sherlock’s smile is Mycroft, he relaxes and turns back to sneaking glances at Sherlock. As if Mycroft’s not a threat, no reason to elicit insecurity, not someone who could ever hope to compete for Sherlock’s affection. 

And he isn’t. He’s hopelessly, utterly in love with his little brother, and he can’t breathe a whisper of his terrible feelings to anyone. Least of all his gorgeous, genius, only brother. 

Mycroft swallows the bile rising in his throat. 

He couldn’t have picked a worse time to revisit these… feelings. Is there ever a _good_ time, he wonders. Yes, yes there was: Every moment of these last two months, he thinks with a pang, these glorious two months. For all the danger and potential snipers and coded messages sending them on wild goose hunts, for the first time in his life Mycroft had Sherlock under his own roof, in his care, occupying the guest room next to Mycroft’s very bedroom. And for the first time since Sherlock moved to London, they got along swimmingly. 

For two months, Mycroft and Sherlock lived together and worked together, Sherlock’s old playful, affectionate side creeping out more day after day, slowly eclipsing all traces of the sullen, aggressive, surly genius his little brother had become after completing drug rehab. Mycroft’s loneliness gradually faded with Sherlock’s transformation into his old self, hanging on his big brother’s every word, happiest in Mycroft’s company, never running out of things to talk to him about. 

Once upon a time it was dead insects and experiments, then chemistry and deductions, then university courses and the immeasurable dullness of the people taking them and teaching them. Now it was the not-Moriarty and his web, terrorists and clues obvious only to them, the two of them, side by side (as they used to be, as they _should_ be, Mycroft thinks passionately). 

Mycroft doesn’t want it to end. Less than ten minutes ago, sitting in the car backseat intensely aware of his little brother’s presence next to him, Sherlock engrossed in his phone, the silence entirely companionable, it hit him: Sherlock no longer has to stay at Mycroft’s. He can safely return to Baker Street. Mycroft’s relief at the lack of luggage was short-lived: Most of Sherlock’s possessions have never left Baker Street in the first place. He has only kept a few of them at Mycroft’s for the past two months and it’s all been temporary anyway (how foul the word tastes; _temporary,_ when his love for Sherlock is anything but). 

In fact, the moment they arrived and Sherlock stepped inside 221b, he has effectively moved back in. He probably expects Mycroft to send him his belongings tomorrow. It’s too obvious to even warrant a mention; Mycroft doesn’t know why on earth he has thought otherwise. John actually moved in the minute Sherlock’s pardon was granted four days ago, and Mrs Hudson is already treating them as long-lost lovers. 

Mycroft steps a little farther from the happy group squeezed into the 221b living room. Even though they all greeted Sherlock with shrieks and hugs, they are all struck by the same need again. Irene Adler whispers something in Sherlock’s ear and pecks him on the cheek. Molly holds him a fraction too long, and Sherlock wraps his arms around her again. Even Lestrade hugs him again. Mrs Hudson ruffles his hair and dabs at her eyes. Janine plants a bold kiss on Sherlock’s lips, to wolf whistles from Irene and Lestrade and a hastily masked scowl from John. 

John’s hands are clenched as he glares at Janine, Mycroft notes. He is the only one who hasn’t hugged or otherwise touched Sherlock. Yet. Much to his chagrin, Mycroft can’t deny that John no longer looks confused. Extremely impatient, he notes bitterly, but not confused. Probably eager to have the party over with and have Sherlock all to himself again. Mycroft struggles to ignore the rush of scenarios John will likely attempt to carry out behind closed doors, as Mycroft heads back to his mansion. Alone. 

If he has no idea how he will handle Sherlock’s absence, at least he knows what he’s doing tonight. Tonight he will sleep in the guest room adjacent to his own bedroom, in the bed his beloved brother has been using since Magnussen’s murder. He will fill his senses with Sherlock’s scent and seek solace in Sherlock’s dear chaos. He won’t let the maid touch that room for a week at least, until he’s exhausted every lingering speck of his brother’s presence. 

How pathetic. Either turn the room into a shrine or go insane with this secret, unrequited, terrible love. 

Well, he can’t go insane. The reason he wakes up every morning is to be there for Sherlock, however Sherlock may need him. His brain is his beloved brother’s strongest ally, and the mere thought of Sherlock facing life stripped of Mycroft’s protection is even more unbearable than facing his house without Sherlock’s glow lighting it. 

“Brooding, Mycroft?” Sherlock materialises in front of him, tantalisingly close, forever out of reach. Not his. Never his. Sherlock smiles at him, clinks the glass Mycroft has forgotten he has in his hand. 

Inexcusable, to retreat into his head so far as to be startled. He smiles back. “Obviously not. I wouldn’t miss this riveting gathering for the world.” He sips his champagne. 

“I warned you.” Sherlock surveys the room. “They’re a very… ah… excitable bunch and they’re not even drunk yet.” 

“Nonsense. What a delightful little group.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Especially the classy Miss Janine.” 

Sherlock shudders elegantly. Mycroft fiercely wants to kiss all traces of Janine’s vile mouth off his brother’s lips. He wants to claim Sherlock and leave his mark on him. And he wants to do it publicly, dignity and career and law be damned. 

“Sherlock, where are all your things?” John’s voice yanks him out of his reverie. John is standing closer to Sherlock than anyone else. He’s so close that if he stands on the tips of his toes he could… From the look on John’s face this is the first thing he’s going to try the second everyone leaves. John’s picturing it too, Mycroft can tell. He grits his teeth, choking on jealousy. 

“Still at Mycroft’s,” Sherlock replies. 

“Well, you still have plenty of your clothes here,” John replies easily. 

A kick in the gut, the realisation that everyone believes Sherlock is impatient to be back here, his stay at Mycroft nothing but part of the ordeal he has been through for two months. And this time his flatmate is eager, free, and no longer confused. 

If Mycroft weren’t so far gone for his little brother, he’d be the first person to concede that things do look much more promising for Sherlock this time round. 

“Actually, I still need to stay at Mycroft’s a little longer. If you’re amenable, that is,” Sherlock adds, looking at Mycroft. 

“You know you’re always welcome to stay at my house for as long as you want,” he replies, struggling to keep his usual disinterested mask over the relief crushing him. 

“Seriously?” John frowns. “Mycroft, you’re not seriously planning to make him do more bloody government work? He’s only just finished working his arse off for two months!” 

“I think it was Sherlock who asked me, not the other way round.” Mycroft allows himself the politest eye roll possible. 

“And to be fair, I was also working to save my own arse, John,” Sherlock adds. 

“Perhaps you should send our delightful Moriarty impostor a card. He did you a tremendous favour, after all,” Mycroft adds, immensely grateful for the man’s idiotic plan to impersonate Moriarty. Sherlock hums in agreement. 

“A tremendous… Jesus, Mycroft. He put your brother in danger for two full months,” John retorts. 

“He also spared him certain death in Eastern Europe,” Mycroft says pleasantly. 

“Oh, for… Spare us the drama just this once, Mycroft.  You’d never send Sherlock to certain death-” 

“You’re right,” Mycroft replies flatly. “I would never do that. Tragically, I didn’t get to pick the mission.” 

“It wasn’t… It was a suicide mission?” John asks, incredulous. 

“Brilliant deduction, John,” Sherlock grins at Mycroft. Mycroft smiles tightly. 

“What the fuck? You stood there and watched your own brother get on a plane to-” 

“Unlike you, I know my brother’s capabilities. I also knew what the alternative meant.” John gapes. Of course. If it’s too much to hope he would understand even if it were spelled out for him, it’s downright idiotic to expect him to figure it out for himself. “Can you imagine my brother locked up in prison, John? Do you know what that would have done to his brain? Can you imagine the welcome party he would’ve received by every murderer he helped put in there?” 

“So you let your… MI6 or whatever rope him into a suicide mission? What, it didn’t occur to you to give him a new identity, new passport? Isn’t all that run of the mill for a _spy?_ ” John spits out the word in disgust. 

“John!” Sherlock is staring at John, appalled. “I was never even going to land in Serbia, you idiot. For heaven’s sake, _think._ Do you seriously think Mycroft would ever knowingly let me come to harm? Or be bested by those bumbling idiots this country is happy to call the government, for that matter?” 

Mycroft tries to mask the giddy warmth that washes over him at Sherlock’s words, ringing with unwavering trust. This, _this_ is the one thing no one on earth can ever take away from him. Sherlock might have flatmates and admirers, but Mycroft will always be his only brother and his single most capable protector. Sherlock will never believe anyone has his back the way he obviously – and rightfully – believes Mycroft does. He will never trust or respect anyone’s mind as he does Mycroft’s. 

At least he has this. 

“Mycroft went above and beyond brotherly duty to protect me, John, when he clearly didn’t have to,” Sherlock says quietly. 

“Clearly I had to,” Mycroft says blandly. “Mother would have buried me alive otherwise.” 

“Probably in Eastern Europe too, no less,” Sherlock quips, grinning. 

“I’m well acquainted with her sense of poetic justice,” Mycroft says. Sherlock clinks his glass against Mycroft’s again and they both sip their champagne. 

“Oh, isn’t it heartwarming?” Mrs Hudson coos. “See? They love each other underneath all that…” 

“It’s bloody weird, actually.” Lestrade remarks. 

Mycroft grasps for something to deflect the attention from anything to do with his feelings for Sherlock. “Despite the amusing Bond movies Sherlock tells me you favour, John, spies don’t dictate terms to the Prime Minister regarding cold-blooded murder, especially murder committed in front of witnesses.” Mycroft pauses. “What spies do, however, is work secretly with other spies when the need arises for illegal arrangements.” 

“At what price?” John asks flatly. 

“Irrelevant.” Mycroft glances at his brother. Something glitters in Sherlock’s beautiful eyes. Mycroft averts his eyes, adding, “When it’s about Sherlock’s inevitable death by torture, the price to stop it is irrelevant.” 

John lets out a hard, mirthless laugh. “I… Sorry, Mycroft.” He sighs. “And it was all for my sake.” 

“Oi,” Lestrade interjects, “Sherlock killed himself for me too, remember?” 

“And Mrs Hudson,” Molly reminds them, as though anyone has forgotten. 

“John doesn’t mean Sherlock’s fake death,” Irene points out in a bored voice. 

“Right, yes. Magnussen… It was all for my sake,” John stares at Sherlock, stricken, then pulls him into a crushing hug. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. 

Sherlock allows the hug without reservation. Mycroft hates the proof that Sherlock is decidedly more tactile around John than he is with everyone else – with the exception of Mycroft, which brings him no relief whatsoever. It somehow makes him John’s equal, in a way, except Mycroft is the brother and John is… will be… everything else. Mycroft wants to be Sherlock’s brother, flatmate, best friend, lover… He wants to be Sherlock’s everything, just like Sherlock is his whole world. 

The doorbell rings, and everyone scrambles up and downstairs, grateful for the interruption. Mycroft stares at John’s arms still smothering his brother. _Wrong,_ he thinks savagely, _wrong wrong wrong, he’s mine._ Mycroft raises his eyes slowly, seeking relief in Sherlock’s lovely face. Sherlock is looking at Mycroft, his expression unreadable. 

Mycroft wonders if Sherlock’s expression was ever unreadable to him before. Never, he decides. 

“I’ll give you two a moment,” he smiles blandly, moving toward the window. The least he could do after John’s apology is extend him some courtesy, little though the incredibly lucky moron deserves it. 

He hears the party exchanging introductions and coming back upstairs. His parents. He schools his face into quiet bemusement to mask the emotions roiling within him. His parents don’t need to worry about him too. They embrace warmly. They look around expectantly for Sherlock. He’s not there.

Neither is John.

“Where’s Sherlock?” Mummy asks. 

“In there,” Irene Adler points to the conspicuously shut door of Sherlock’s bedroom and waggles her eyebrows at Janine in delight. Mycroft’s heart sinks. 

“Oooh,” Janine stage-whispers, apparently just as ridiculously delighted with the suggestion (suggestion, he repeats to himself; surely Sherlock won’t… Surely he’ll wait until everybody’s left? It’s probably John who can’t wait). He can’t even scowl. It would only be interpreted as ridiculously controlling, since no one knows the real reason. And _that’_ s not something anyone can know either. 

Sometimes the weight of this enslaving secret feels like it’s crushing him. 

“About time,” Mrs Hudson chimes in, nodding at the closed door and handing his parents champagne glasses. “Poor John’s been through so much.” 

Poor _John?_ He clenches then unclenches his hands, trying not to imagine what is going on right now behind the closed door. How far he has fallen, not only pining after his younger brother but now envying a confused (not anymore, and isn’t that great timing), broken shell of a man. He wishes he could shield himself from the snatches of visions accosting him. Lips caressing lips, clothes falling open, revealing creamy, pale skin. Sherlock willingly allowing… _encouraging_ John to do what only Mycroft should do. 

His eyes sting, and he swallows it all back angrily. Oh, and now he’s about to think that’s not fair. He’s stooped low enough to resort to that sort of immature reasoning. 

The door opens suddenly and John stalks out. More wolf whistles and inane remarks. Idiots, Mycroft thinks in relief, surreptitiously inspecting him for signs of any physical romantic activity. None whatsoever, although John looks shaken. Argument, then. John greets Mycroft’s parents and ignores Mycroft completely. Argument about Mycroft. _Oh._ Sherlock… berated John on his behalf? He glances back at Sherlock’s room. Sherlock strolls out, eyes trained on… Mycroft, expression unreadable ( _again?_ ). They lock gazes, then Mycroft breaks the gaze, uncharacteristically uncertain and unused to being uncertain. 

Sherlock stops next to him, hands buried in his pockets. His scent wafts out, tendril by delicious tendril turning Mycroft light-headed. 

Side by side. It’s where they belong, he and his brother. 

Sherlock drapes his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, watches their parents hug John. He turns to look at his younger brother, his bemused mask slipping. 

For a few seconds, it’s over a decade ago, and he’s looking at his brother, affectionate, tactile, and eager to monopolise all of Mycroft’s time on his rare visits home, before Mycroft’s barrage of promotions, before the drugs and John and Moriarty and getting shot… The onslaught of cherished memories coupled with Sherlock’s proximity send Mycroft’s blood rushing south. Alarmed, Mycroft casually shakes the lovely arm off. 

A flicker of hurt flits across Sherlock’s beautiful face. Mycroft wants to kick himself – and pull Sherlock’s arm back. They’re brothers, damn it. There’s nothing wrong with some brotherly affection when he’s the only one aware of his guilt and his shameful secret. 

“Come on,” Sherlock says, a little too casually, “you have to tell Mummy I didn’t smoke once during my stay with you. She never believes me.” 

“He was the model son as usual, Mummy,” Mycroft deadpans lamely. 

“Well done. Now she’ll never believe me,” Sherlock retorts, smiling tentatively at him before turning toward their parents. John immediately hovers next to Sherlock. 

The party stretches on unbearably. John hovers continuously near Sherlock. Mycroft keeps searching his brother’s face for any traces of hurt. Sherlock studiously avoids his gaze. The thought that he has hurt his little brother and wrecked this new (renewed, which makes it even more precious) two-month-old truce is killing him. He can’t even ask Sherlock to step outside with him for a few minutes. Ostensibly they don’t smoke, and surely whatever Mycroft needs to discuss can wait since Sherlock is staying with him tonight (perhaps he’s changed his mind though, after Mycroft’s oafish behavior). He can’t resort to lies about dangerous work without alarming his parents. 

They all go downstairs to Mrs Hudson’s flat for coffee when she discovers that Sherlock had dismantled the coffeemaker at some point before the Magnussen business. Molly complains of a headache. Sherlock offers to fetch her some aspirin from 221b. Mycroft mutters hastily about getting something for his back and follows his brother upstairs. He hesitates inside the flat, then locks the flat door behind him. 

Mycroft approaches Sherlock’s room. His brother is crouched by his nightstand’s bottom drawer, inspecting what looks like an aspirin pack in his hand. Mycroft's eyes move hungrily from the tousled mop of curls to the decadent exposed nape of his neck, to his graceful back in an elegant, very fitted light blue shirt, to his pert bottom and long legs encased in tight trousers… 

Mycroft’s pulse races. He clears his throat. Sherlock stands up fluidly, a sinfully beautiful Adonis in a modern pair of trousers and shirt. He turns the aspirin pack in his hand and says, “Come in and shut the door, Mycroft.” 

The soft click of the door makes the rest of the house seem continents away from the two of them. 

This is a mistake. Why couldn’t he wait until they had left the party? How can he avoid giving himself away like this? 

Sherlock turns around and finally meets his gaze. His eyes glitter, inscrutable. Mycroft’s mouth goes dry. 

“I…” Mycroft begins. Sherlock waits, uncharacteristically patient. “About earlier, Sherlock. That was utterly harsh of me, and-” 

Sherlock sighs. Mycroft is confused, unsure where he’s overstepped. It’s entirely possible he put too much weight on a silly arm drape. Sherlock _has_ , after all, got increasingly tactile with him over the past two months. It’s how he has always been around Mycroft for most of his life anyway. It’s possible he has no idea what Mycroft is blathering on about. 

Sherlock sets the aspirin on the nightstand and puts his hands in his pockets. He raises his head, looks at Mycroft, pensive. “No need to apologise,” he says. “It was too familiar, especially with all of them there. I made you uncomfortable and-” 

“No… What? _No_ , Sherlock.” And yet the real explanation will definitely leave his precious brother recoiling in disgust. “When have your hugs ever made me uncomfortable?” 

“I’ve only ever hugged you around Mummy and Daddy, Mycroft.” 

“True. Well, you saw the fuss your lovely guests made about us being nice,” Mycroft adds helpfully. 

Sherlock huffs. “Idiots. Thank heavens Mummy hadn’t arrived yet. She would’ve thought we’ve been at each other’s throats since I came to London."

“We _have_ been at each other’s throats since you came to London. You've been at my throat, at least.”

“Well, you looked properly disgusted the day you took me to rehab. You looked… scared of me. I couldn’t hug you again after that. You should’ve seen the horror on your face earlier.” Sherlock scowls. Mycroft wonders if he will one day find it anything less than breathtaking. “I really am clean, you know. Even if addiction were contagious, it wouldn’t be now.” 

“I know that.” Mycroft snaps, horrified. How did he miss this? Sherlock actually thinks Mycroft was... permanently repelled? “That’s stupid even for you, Sherlock.” 

“You even stopped ruffling my hair,” Sherlock says. What a ridiculous thing to say, Mycroft thinks, even as he concedes that it’s true. 

“I was under the impression the world’s only consulting detective wouldn’t appreciate having his big brother ruffle his hair,” says Mycroft, confused. 

Sherlock peers into Mycroft’s face. “And now you’re dying to ask if I’m on something.” Entirely correct. “I’m _not._ I’m disappointed in your deductive prowess, Mycroft.” Sherlock picks up the aspirin again. “You never ruffled my hair in public. It was always at home. If I didn’t mind you ruffling my hair when I was a university graduate, it’s only logical that I won’t mind at any later point.” 

“Like I said, this is stupid even for you, Sherlock.” Sherlock looks at him, struggling to look affronted. “So this is… What? You’re angry with me because I’ve stopped ruffling your hair?” 

Something shutters in Sherlock’s eyes. “Never mind, Mycroft.” He moves toward the door. 

Mycroft swiftly blocks his path. “You are an idiot,” he says, smiling. But Sherlock doesn’t resist when he is pulled into a hug, immediately wrapping his arms around Mycroft. 

Mycroft raises a tentative hand and ruffles Sherlock’s hair in wonder. Oh, how he has missed touching those precious, soft curls. His hand cards through them slowly, repeatedly. Sherlock emits something suspiciously like a purr, his arms tightening around Mycroft. 

“You can’t look out for me all the time with your surveillance and your minions like I’m a… big toddler, and think I’d mind you ruffling my hair,” Sherlock mumbles into his shoulder. 

“But you are a big toddler, Sherlock,” Mycroft replies, Sherlock’s curls tickling his nose. “You need someone to look out for you.” 

“Is there anything you wouldn’t do for me, Mycroft?” 

Taken aback at the question (no, there is _nothing_ in this world he wouldn’t do for Sherlock), Mycroft tries to pull back. Sherlock tightens his arms around him, pulls him impossibly closer. 

It’s a perfectly natural, innocent brotherly hug, he tells himself feebly, trying to ward off the guilt. Their hips are dangerously close, and he wills the spike of arousal away. He wants to crush Sherlock to him, he wants… His cock swells rapidly in his pants, and he tries to pull away frantically, terrified at Sherlock’s inevitable disgust and horror if… 

“Relax, Mycroft,” Sherlock murmurs, his baritone swirling to coil around Mycroft’s cock, pulling it harder in his pants. Slender fingers brush his scalp, carding through the sparse hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Sherlock?” He doesn’t recognise his voice. 

“Mycroft, listen.” Mycroft forces his voice to produce the requisite questioning hum through the fog of arousal. “You no longer have to keep me under your roof now that… No,” when Mycroft stills, “ _no,_ listen.” Sherlock tightens his arms around him again, “I’m not moving out yet.” He drags his stubble against Mycroft’s jaw, his soft lips settling in a warm puff of breath next to Mycroft’s ear, “I’m just giving you a way out.” 

“A way out?” Mycroft repeats in dazed wonder, heart hammering, painfully aroused. 

Sherlock exhales shakily. “Yes. You might need it.” 

Mycroft pulls back to peer at his brother. Sherlock is breathing heavily, hands clutching Mycroft’s forearms. Mycroft’s hands are splayed open in the air on either side of Sherlock’s waist. 

“Sherlock, I haven’t the slightest-” 

Sherlock kisses him. 

Sherlock’s lips are impossibly soft. His tongue licks into Mycroft’s mouth, across his teeth, swirls around his tongue. Mycroft can't breathe. 

Sherlock’s lips move against his ear. “Sorry, Mycroft. Sorry,” he whispers. It sounds like a sob. Something inside Mycroft breaks. Sherlock begins to pull back, clears his throat, adds, “You can send my stuff-” 

Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s waist with both hands, slamming him against the wall. He crowds against him, crushing his mouth against his brother’s, sucking on his bottom lip. He takes Sherlock’s hand and trails his fingers along his own hard length. Sherlock gasps and presses himself flush against Mycroft. _Oh._ An answering hardness throbs hotly against his thigh. _Oh God._  

The room tilts. Mycroft must be dying: It hurts to breathe, his blood is on fire, his skin is on fire, his ears are roaring. He is drunk on Sherlock’s scent, Sherlock’s tongue against his in Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s fingers intertwined with his against the wall on either side of his brother’s precious head, Sherlock’s erection against his, searing hot through their layers of clothes. Mycroft has never been so aroused in his life. He thrusts against his brother as if he wants to flatten him against the wall. Sherlock rolls his hips against Mycroft’s and nibbles on his bottom lip. 

Mycroft’s mind short-circuits. He growls, devours his brother’s mouth as his hands frantically undo Sherlock’s button and tear his trousers open. His brain doesn’t understand he’s sunk down until wood digs into his clothed knees. He desperately yanks down Sherlock’s boxers and swallows him whole. 

Sherlock’s musk fills his nostrils. Sherlock’s cock… In his mouth… He licks into the slit, around the head, sucks and swallows around his brother’s cock, moaning, grunting. Mycroft’s hands knead his brother’s plush buttocks, part the cheeks, slide between them and underneath. His brain knows not to hurt his beloved brother by fingering his hole dry but he rubs it, massages the skin around it, presses his finger against the perineum. 

He feels Sherlock’s cock get even harder before his mouth is flooded with hot bitterness. Sherlock spills into his mouth as Mycroft swallows and sucks, suckling his brother’s cock, milking him dry, anxious not to let one drop of his release escape his mouth. 

He swallows, and swallows. He takes huge gulps of ragged breath as Sherlock’s cock softens in his mouth. It slips out, and Sherlock melts to the floor. Mycroft presses a hand to his chest in an attempt to steady his breathing, catching Sherlock and pulling him into an embrace with his other arm, both of them panting. Mycroft's hand strays to his brother's soft cock, still hanging out, and Mycroft kisses the gasp out of Sherlock's mouth before leaving open-mouthed kisses on Sherlock’s curls, his forehead, his nose. They kiss as Sherlock reaches sluggishly for Mycroft’s crotch, which is when Mycroft becomes aware of the sticky wetness in his groin. 

He came untouched. 

The realisation hits Sherlock at the same time. He breaks the kiss and pulls back slightly, something impossibly tender flashing across his eyes, and he clutches Mycroft’s bicep with one hand, peers into his face intently. “Since when?” Sherlock whispers. 

A mobile pinges. Text message. Sherlock’s mobile. Mycroft’s free hand shoots out to stop Sherlock from getting up. “No. Leave it. It’s probably…” Then it dawns on him. The party. Downstairs. Their parents, for heaven’s sake. “Oh my God.” 

“Since when, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft looks his fill at his brother's red lips, his brother's bare cock in Mycroft's hand, shiny with Mycroft's spit – oh, he still can’t believe it really happened. “A very long time ago.” He falls on Sherlock's lips, one kiss, then twice. “You weren’t even of age when it started.” 

“I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this for me,” Sherlock offers against Mycroft's mouth. 

Mycroft is left reeling at the implications of that. 

Sherlock’s mobile pinges with another text. He manages to read it despite the fact that Mycroft's fondling his bare cock and licking at his bottom lip, then he purses his lips and hands the phone to Mycroft, as if Mycroft doesn't want to smash the vile thing against the wall.

Between the taste of Sherlock's lips and his leaking slit, it takes Mycroft three attempts to actually read the words. 

Both texts are from Irene Adler. 

 _17:53 Kinky! You’re lucky it was me and not John or the DI. Also, your Ice Prince is very loud. Now let me in. You need a beard, you idiot._

_17:55 Let me in. Unless this is something your parents already know about?_  

Mycroft’s heart is racing. His entire world has been turned upside down. A former prostitute with a new identity has apparently found out he and his brother have just…

Sherlock stands up, and Mycroft watches him hastily doing up his zipper, cock hidden once again in his pants. Sherlock’s graceful fingers rest where the button used to be. Before Mycroft tore it in his rush to-

Mycroft is on his feet and pulling Sherlock into a messy kiss before he’s even aware of it, beside himself with want and giddy disbelief as his little brother melts into his embrace. 

A sharp rap on the door startles them apart. 

Mycroft looks at his saliva on his brother’s lips. At the dazed look in Sherlock’s bluegreen eyes. Mycroft takes a deep breath, then stands back and unlocks the door. He opens it a fraction. Irene promptly squeezes into the room, shutting the door and locking it. 

“Oh my,” she breathes, eyes on Sherlock. 

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft warns, aware of the debauched picture his brother makes. He drapes a possessive arm around his brother’s slender waist. Sherlock ignores Irene completely, turning toward Mycroft, melting against him, seeking his lips with his lovely mouth, as heedless of decorum as ever (and Mycroft’s one to talk, kissing and fellating his own brother, eagerly swallowing his semen while their parents sit downstairs; allowing Irene into the room with a wet patch on his trouser front and the taste of Sherlock’s come in his mouth). “Sherlock,” he begins, grasping for any remaining dregs of his rapidly evaporating sanity. 

Sherlock trails his fingers along Mycroft’s length, and Mycroft kisses back helplessly, cock sticky and thickening against Sherlock's palm. He wants to order Irene to turn away (the rare sight of Sherlock undone is for his eyes only) but his tongue is fucking Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock deftly unbuttons Mycroft’s trousers while walking him backwards. Sherlock falls on top of him on the bed, lowering Mycroft’s zip, insinuating his slender fingers inside the stickiness and curling them around Mycoft’s cock. 

Mycroft's hips buck up helplessly as he thrusts into Sherlock’s hand. Part of him cannot believe he’s indulging in this in front of a stranger (and one lusting after his brother as well), but all of him cannot believe he’s allowed to do this at all, to actually touch his beloved brother as a lover, to have his brother touch him as a lover… All thoughts of Irene and decorum fly out of his head when Sherlock’s hot, bare cock is suddenly thrusting against his, Sherlock’s hand wrapped around both of them. 

It’s over in a dizzying flash this time, and fumes of pleasure scorch his brain as Sherlock pulses hotly onto Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft spills while Sherlock is still coming. The image of both their cocks ejaculating at the same time, semen mixing messily and coating both their cocks… Mycroft fists his hand in Sherlock’s silken curls and pulls his brother down to a brutal kiss, lifting Sherlock’s semen covered hand up towards his lips. 

Oh, but Sherlock reads him in a flash, insinuating one finger after the other between their open mouths. Mycroft is positive his heart can’t handle the dizzying pleasure as their tongues meet wetly, licking their mingled come, gliding against each other around Sherlock’s finger, until finger after finger Sherlock’s hand is licked clean. Sherlock is still on top of Mycroft, his clothed legs tangled against Mycroft’s. Sherlock licks a few drops of semen off the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, presses languid kisses on and into his open mouth, presses soft, warm kisses on Mycroft’s cheek, dearly reminiscent of the kisses Sherlock used to bestow adoringly on Mycroft’s cheeks countless times a day as a child. I love you, he thinks, his heart about to overflow with love, this lifelong love for his little brother. 

Heavy breathing. Mycroft is abruptly reminded of Irene’s presence. She is staring at them unabashedly, pupils blown, leaning against the door for support. 

“Oh my,” she breathes.  “That was ten different kinds of filthy… and sexy. Who knew the Ice Prince and the Virgin-” 

Mycroft comes crashing down from the afterglow. He scrambles to pull up a blanket around Sherlock and himself. 

“Oh, don’t be a selfish little boy, Mr Holmes.” She’s got her breath under control. “I can barely see anything from here.” 

Sherlock begins in a warning voice, “Irene, play nice-” 

“It’s not like I’ve never seen our darling virgin starkers before.” She glances at Mycroft then returns to look her fill at Sherlock. 

Mycroft bares his teeth. “Miss Adler-” 

“Ooh, possessive.” Irene looks at Mycroft, says, “He turned me down, you know,” then to Sherlock, “So you do make spectacularly bad deductions sometimes.” 

“Shut up!” Sherlock scrambles up to a sitting position. 

“Is this who you were talking about-” 

“Irene!” Sherlock snarls at her. 

“-when you said you were in love-” 

“Shut up!” Mycroft’s head snaps up. 

“-but he would never want you? Not a terribly brilliant deduction there, honey.” 

Mycroft’s heart is hammering. Sherlock won’t meet his eyes. He glares at Irene. 

“Oh, lighten up, Sherlock,” she chuckles. “Well, this has been quite the show, you two. I don’t mind telling you I’d happily pay to watch this. Again. Anytime.” 

Mycroft is unreasonably jealous of any further communication between her and his little brother. There's also the comment Sherlock supposedly made. He’s desperate to learn more about that. “Miss Adler-” 

“But let’s clean you two up first and get you dressed, shall we? Also, I’m Sherlock’s beard, not yours, Mr Holmes. You’ll have to go downstairs first.” 

“And leave you alone with him.” Mycroft seethes, realising it _is_ the only plausible option. 

She studies him with intelligent eyes. “You’ve figured it out then. Good.” She turns her back to them and opens the wardrobe unceremoniously. “The spare suit Sherlock always keeps for you is still here.” She turns to them. “I knew it wasn’t John’s size. You don’t need a brain to figure that out. But I never would have imagined it was yours, Mr Holmes.” Her eyes are dancing with mirth. 

Irene is indeed admiring a navy blue suit complete with shirt, tie, and pocket square. Precisely his size. 

Mycroft turns to look at his brother, who shrugs and refuses to meet his eyes. 

“I had it made just in case. A long time ago. I forgot all about it,” Sherlock adds hastily. Mycroft trails his fingers down Sherlock’s arm possessively, trying to contain himself. 

Irene snorts. “ _Do_ get over it, Mr Holmes. And please hurry. Your parents may be enjoying Mrs Hudson’s excellent scones but John Watson, I assure you, will be up here any minute to check on his dear… flatmate.” 

“Sherlock?” 

Irene groans at the sound of John’s voice from behind the locked door of the flat. 

“Sherlock?” John raps on the door. “Sherlock, are you there?” Another rap. “You okay?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Watersports. If you're not familiar with that kink, please look it up first. 
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited, so my sincerest apologies for all the mistakes.

“He’s not going away,” Irene warns unnecessarily. 

“Clearly,” Sherlock glares at her, tucking himself in hurriedly under the covers and leaping to pick his phone off the floor, fingers flying across the buttons. 

“Is he even aware of how loud he is?” Mycroft mutters tightly, refastening his trousers. He remains under the covers, shrinking from displaying his wet trouser front again before Irene's inquisitive eyes, as laughable as the idea of privacy is right now. 

“John, stop this racket!” Sherlock exclaims, phone cradled between his head and shoulder, whizzing across the room and laying clean clothes in two piles on the bed. Rapt, Mycroft follows the lithe form with his eyes. “Mycroft and I have a situation here with Irene…” _Oh._ Ridiculously pleased, Mycroft wonders why he even thought Sherlock would go for the ludicrous beard idea. “No, I’m fine. Oh, for… No, no CIA this time. Yes, yes... Oh, I don't know – whenever I can hang  _up_?"

John’s reluctance to end the call grates on Mycroft’s nerves. Hands on hips, Irene glares at Sherlock after he finally hangs up and stops by Mycroft’s side of the bed. “A _situation_ with Irene?” 

“A _beard_ , Irene?” Sherlock says, incredulous. “Now turn around.” 

“Of all the times to discover your inner prude, Sherlock-” 

“I’m not being prudish. Turn around,” Sherlock repeats impatiently. 

“I didn’t think you could actually get more childish. Why don’t you kick me out of the room like an adult would do?” 

Sherlock glares at her. 

“Obviously, Miss Adler,” Mycroft says quietly, “he knows I won’t be able to keep my hands off him if we’re left alone.” 

“I’m not terribly sure it’s not the other way around,” Sherlock mutters. He glances at Mycroft, obviously surprised by the uncharacteristic (downright outrageous, Mycroft admits) expression of sentiment. 

His surprise is warranted, of course. Mycroft doesn’t do sentiment, at least not with anyone other than their parents and Sherlock himself. Definitely not in front of a stranger, which he very much considers Irene Adler. 

But there’s something indescribably… heady about watching her look at Sherlock and register _Taken, In Love,_ or any other similarly ridiculous label people use. Having someone witness Mycroft laying his claim on Sherlock, witness Sherlock welcoming that claim, reciprocating it. 

Pitiful, which is alarming. Even more alarmingly, he doesn’t mind.  

“This…” She begins, realising. “This was your first time.” She studies both of them. “Hurry up then,” she finishes quietly, turning her back on them. 

Sherlock immediately tugs him into a passionate kiss that doesn’t go on nearly long enough. Mycroft’s hands move under his brother’s shirt, up and down his warm skin. His knees start to feel weak. 

“I can still hear you, you know,” comes Irene’s voice, exasperated. 

Sherlock reluctantly pulls back, eyes as dazed as Mycroft feels. 

“Fine. Stopped,” Sherlock grumbles, eyes on Mycroft’s mouth. 

They undress facing each other. Entranced, Mycroft dimly registers that his movements are uncoordinated, but Sherlock is stepping into fresh pants in front of him, all toned, nude perfection and smooth, porcelain skin. It’s not his fault, he thinks, not when Sherlock’s gaze follows Mycroft’s naked body hungrily, his graceful fingers attempting to button a fitted shirt several times before getting it right. As if Sherlock is looking at a body as perfect as his, instead of Mycroft’s middle-aged, decidedly imperfect form. 

 _“I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t like this for me.”_  

 _How_ did he miss this? It doesn’t surprise him that Sherlock never picked up on Mycroft’s feelings. He did keep them hidden intentionally, and his little brother, genius though he is, cannot unearth secrets Mycroft deliberately buries. 

But how did _he,_ Mycroft, miss this secret of Sherlock’s? 

“Are you quite done ogling each other?” Irene mutters, piercing the fog around his brain. 

Tonight, he thinks. 

*** *** *** 

“Well?” Irene asks, gripping Sherlock’s arm before he can open the flat door. 

“Well what?” Sherlock replies, shaking off her hand and looping his arm around Mycroft’s. Mycroft’s heart flutters. 

Irene stares pointedly at their linked arms and rolls her eyes. “What’s the mysterious situation you told John about? And how will you explain this?” She gestures at their clean outfits. 

“Difficult to believe you fooled me once,” Sherlock sighs. At Irene’s glare, he continues, “No one will even ask what the situation is. You’re a dominatrix who “died” after blackmailing the British government and is now someone else. Mycroft,” Sherlock’s arm leans a little heavier against his, sending a thrill through his veins, “is the British government that gave you a new identity. I’m the consulting detective who was there for all of it. Clearly anything we discuss is classified. Even Lestrade won’t ask. It won’t stop John from asking, of course, but it won’t be you he’ll badger about this,” Sherlock mutters, bemused. Mycroft’s chest tightens. 

“I won’t argue with you on that,” Irene replies thoughtfully. “People now look at me with more awe than they used to look at my dungeons. What about your clothes?” 

“Oh, you regrettably lost your temper and…” Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, adding, “You threw your wine at us.” 

“I doubt anyone would throw wine at your brother and live to tell the tale, but to the imbeciles downstairs it’s actually pretty plausible.” 

“Kindly remember that my mother is among those imbeciles,” Sherlock points out before Mycroft does, though he does level his most steely glare at Irene. “And I assure you she is anything but.” 

“I meant your daily circle of accomplices, dear. I wouldn’t dream of thinking about your parents like that.” Irene replies, undaunted. “Especially not with your scary brother around to hear me think it. Where’s the wine then?” Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

“What wine?” Sherlock asks. 

“The wine I threw at you, Sherlock.” 

“You know, I think the lack of psychopathic consulting criminals is rotting your brain. Why should we ruin our suits? No one’s going to see them. I put them at the very back of my wardrobe.” 

“My brain is not the only one suffering after dear Jim, then,” Irene says pleasantly, “if you genuinely believe John won’t inspect the very back of your wardrobe the minute you leave.” 

Mycroft is accosted by the image of John going through Sherlock’s things, sniffing his clothes, and he grits his teeth. Sherlock’s fingers move soothingly up and down his arm. 

“It’s completely believable for me to have sent my driver up to fetch them and take them to the dry cleaner’s, Miss Adler,” Mycroft replies tightly. “It is after all how I usually send Sherlock anything I want him to have.” 

“Why did you two come up here in the first place?” She asks curiously. 

“Oh, Molly’s aspirin,” Sherlock says, remembering, and dashes back to his bedroom for it. Mycroft doesn’t realise he’s watching his little brother’s form until Irene speaks. 

“Are you going downstairs like this?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asks, tearing his eyes away from the direction of the bedroom. 

“You look like you want to eat him alive."

Mycroft clears his throat. “Stating the obvious again, Miss Adler.” 

“Quite frankly I can’t imagine anyone who _doesn’t_ want in Sherlock’s pants,” she says. He glares at her. “You, however, are the only person who can’t show it. Sad but true.” 

He purses his lips, uncomfortably reminded of what has tortured him all his life. Irene huffs good naturedly, and he can't deny he's secretly comforted by her nonchalance at that most feared of social taboos. His annoyance evaporates at his brother’s oblivious grace as he saunters across the room, aspirin in hand. Right before they open the door, Mycroft pulls Sherlock into one last fierce kiss. Sherlock’s lips part for him immediately, the enthusiastic response warming his heart. He inhales his little brother’s scent deeply, then pulls back. 

 _Tonight._  

When they open the door, John is sitting on the top step. 

Mycroft feels like a bucket of cold water has just been dumped on him. 

“Took your bloody time,” he grumbles, springing up immediately and standing in Sherlock’s space, inspecting him, glaring at both Mycroft and Irene. "You okay?” He asks Sherlock softly. Again: The supremely galling implication that Mycroft would knowingly put Sherlock in harm’s way. 

Mycroft clenches his hands, unclenches them, seething. 

“I’m standing here in one piece, aren’t I?” Sherlock replies easily, squeezing around John and starting gracefully down the stairs. “Why on earth would anything happen to me?” 

“Have you deleted the last two times I left you alone with her?” John follows him down the stairs. 

“Have _you_ deleted the fact that I'm no longer working for a megalomaniac criminal? Christ,” Irene retorts. 

John’s proximity to Sherlock is immeasurably worse now. He wants to grab his brother and make John watch him kiss Sherlock. He wants to see the stricken realisation in John’s eyes that he does not have a chance, that Sherlock is taken. 

He pauses outside the flat door to calm down, letting them enter Mrs Hudson’s flat first. He touches his lips, fingers the expensive suit he’s wearing.

_Tonight._

*** *** *** 

Everyone does take their explanation at face value, although Janine fixes Irene with an interested gleam in her eyes when Irene expounds on her past as a dominatrix. Not even John bats an eye when he learns Sherlock keeps a spare suit for Mycroft in his wardrobe. Mycroft knows that to most people any closeness between siblings is hardly worth a second glance, but it still amazes him that no one picks up on the fiery longing roiling inside him for his little brother. 

The party drags on interminably. Mycroft is even more aware of his brother now that he knows what Sherlock feels like, intimate and willing against him. It’s all he can do not to stare at Sherlock’s long, graceful neck and the sliver of pale skin below it, the smooth skin of his delicate wrists peeking out of his cuffs, the way his clothes lie indecently snug around his body. His fire is fuelled further by the similar awareness shimmering vibrantly around Sherlock, even though he doesn't glance at Mycroft once. Mycroft’s eyes stray several times to the sweet bulge on Sherlock’s trouser front, tearing them away each time when he senses Irene’s sharp gaze on him.  

He’s also intensely aware of John, glued to Sherlock’s side. Jealousy flares inside him at John’s little casual touches, fingers lingering too long, knee brushing Sherlock’s unnecessarily. Sherlock seems oblivious to it. He isn’t, Mycroft knows, and it’s not the first time Mycroft is tormented by Sherlock’s tolerance of John’s ever increasing Not Gay tactility. 

John has everyone in fits telling the story of Sherlock in a sheet in Buckingham Palace. Several pairs of eyes in the audience are gleaming, obviously picturing the delicious image of his little brother nearly naked. Mycroft remembers both the violent desire that hit him at the mouthwatering sight as well as the savage jealousy choking him when he realised what John was regularly treated to as Sherlock’s flatmate. 

John gestures with his hands, then rests one on Sherlock’s knee, fingers splayed open. He seems entirely unperturbed when Sherlock gets up to fetch some water. Everyone exchanges knowing glances and silly, little smiles. Even his parents smile. 

At least Sherlock didn’t leave his hand there. Mycroft finds only feeble, watery solace in that, and yet… What does he want Sherlock to do? Stand up in a fit? Order John to keep his hands to himself? The cold, hard truth is Sherlock will always be lusted after, and he will always appear single and available. 

There’s no solution to that. 

Even now, with Sherlock’s taste in his mouth, with his skin still tingling from Sherlock’s eager touch, there is no solution. Sherlock can’t announce he has finally found someone and insist on keeping his identity a secret. John would not rest until he has found out who it is, and Sherlock’s celebrity status would drive his stalkers wild. Revealing the truth is out of the question. 

There’s no solution. 

There is no scenario where he can stand by his brother’s side as a lover, where his hand around Sherlock’s waist, his lips on Sherlock’s beautiful mouth will mean his precious brother is His, glaring, neon-like, and final, to everyone else. Where his presence next to Sherlock will mean he is protected, well taken care of, and deeply, fiercely loved. 

John has finished regaling them with his story at last. Mycroft watches Sherlock’s easy smile. Something tightens in his chest. Mycroft gets up quietly, unnoticed, and strolls to the window. 

“Mr Holmes,” comes Irene’s voice a moment later. 

He sighs. “Miss Adler.” 

“Will you drop the attitude? I’m not a brainless stranger crushing on Sherlock,” Irene says. “I actually care about him." 

He rubs his eyes wearily. Exhaustion settles heavily on his shoulders and into his bones. 

“Sherlock saved my life. He didn’t have to.” 

“Yes, even geniuses can make idiotic mistakes,” Mycroft remarks, eyes till staring out the window. 

Irene sighs, unfazed. “I don’t know how he stands you. None of my business. Listen, Mr Holmes. Upstairs… That was incredibly careless of you. It could have just as easily been someone other than me, and-” 

“You really do enjoy stating the obvious,” Sherlock says, stopping next to Mycroft, arm nudging his. Mycroft turns his face to look at him. Sherlock’s smile is playful, his eyes glittering. 

His stomach heats. 

 _Sherlock’s tongue against his. Sherlock’s erect cock in his hand. Sherlock ejaculating in his mouth. Sherlock pulsing against Mycroft’s cock, spilling onto it…_  

He swallows. He’s hard again. He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking away. 

“You two are hopeless,” Irene mutters, mercifully leaving them. He tries to steady his breathing, staring at the window with unseeing eyes. The urge to pull Sherlock close, kiss him senseless is shockingly powerful, intensified tenfold now that he knows his brother’s body is no longer forbidden to him. The consolation Sherlock’s arms can offer is suddenly something Mycroft wants, _needs_ badly, he discovers, now that he can have it. 

“Hey,” Sherlock says softly. 

He nods without turning his face, unable to find his voice, not trusting himself to look at his brother. 

Voices and bits of conversation swirl around them. 

“Second thoughts?” 

The uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice astounds him. “You’re much smarter than that,” he says thickly. 

“Then…” Sherlock begins softly. “Look at me, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft smiles tightly, shakes his head. “I don’t know what I might do if…” He shakes his head again. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock says softly. 

“Do you know what it does to me? When you say my name like that?” Surely he must know. 

Sherlock’s breath hitches. “Look at me,” he says quietly. 

Mycroft turns his head slowly, barely breathing, raises his eyes. 

“I want to kiss you,” Sherlock whispers brokenly. 

Mycroft's eyes flutter closed for a second. “Are you trying to drive me insane?” 

“I’m trying to get you to take me home.” Sherlock’s beautiful eyes are hooded and dark, his lips parted, moist. 

Mycroft’s mouth waters. 

“Good grief,” Irene’s furious whisper pierces the haze around Mycroft’s mind, “are you _trying_ to advertise this? For heaven’s sake, look at your faces." 

“Yes, thank you,” he replies quietly. “We’re going home.” 

Mycroft barely registers the predictable shouts of dismay when Sherlock announces their departure. His mind is racing ahead to the moment the car door will close behind them, shielding them from everyone else. His hands tingle. 

John is visibly stricken. Mycroft refuses to consider what will happen when Sherlock moves back to Baker Street, and because Mycroft is not an idiot he knows Sherlock _will_ move back eventually. He desperately wishes Sherlock won’t (there’s nothing socially dubious about siblings living together, at least), but he knows he will. 

He refuses to wonder if Sherlock will find John’s advances interesting, attractive. 

Natural. 

How he hates that word. As if the brightest, most profoundly right thing in his life is unnatural.

Sherlock is wrapping his scarf around his neck. He glances at Mycroft. The promise in his eyes sends all dark thoughts shrivelling away and sparks warmth in his belly and a giddy lightness in his heart. He looks away hurriedly, and spots his parents shrugging on their coats and exchanging good byes with the others. 

It occurs to him that he will be the ultimate hypocrite if he ever ridicules people for caring again. He is acting enough like a fool that his brain actually ignored the simple fact that his parents will be spending the night at his house, as they always do on their rare trips to London. 

Astounding, that despite spending a lifetime resigned to pining hopelessly after his little brother, the idea of waiting one more night now feels physically unbearable. And he can’t even find the cynic inside him to ground him with some much-needed ridicule. 

Definitely a fool in love. 

*** *** *** 

Exquisite torture. All four of them squeezed in the backseat, Sherlock’s thigh pressed against his, a lovely necessity nevertheless driving him crazy. The car can’t move fast enough, and every stop sign is agonising. He’s painfully hard, and only the obligation to contribute to the easy conversation his parents keep up stops him from tearing out his hair in frustration. Sherlock is aroused as well, and his knowledge of the fact makes it even more tantalising, his little brother’s warm thigh pressed against his, rubbing his under the pretense of shifting in his seat. 

Finally the car stops outside his house. He can’t get his parents out of the car fast enough. Sherlock seems engrossed in his mobile, but the warmth seeping from him suggests otherwise. The idea that his beloved brother is as anxious to be alone with him as he is sets his insides on fire, and he barely manages coherent speech as he reacquaints his parents with the layout of the house. His mother finally announces they are exhausted and will settle in for the night, and he and Sherlock bid their parents good night and step back into the corridor. 

Heart hammering in anticipation, he forces himself to walk to his room at the very end of the corridor. He clenches his hands tightly, longing, tingling... 

Sherlock steps into Mycroft’s room before him. Mycroft follows, shuts the door, and locks it. 

Sherlock is on him in an instant. He kisses back hungrily, wondering how he survived so long without this. The necessity of staying quiet heightens his senses. He is acutely aware of all the delicious, little noises Sherlock keeps swallowing down. Sherlock claws at his jacket as Mycroft tears at his. Their clothes hit the floor in a tangled pile. Sherlock’s erection nudges his thigh hotly as he frantically steers his little brother to the bed. Mycroft is almost out of his mind with lust. Sherlock’s legs hit the bed and he lands on his back, pulling Mycroft onto him. Their cocks rub together, pulling a strangled gasp from Mycroft's mouth. His hand flies to curl around both of them. Sherlock pushes it away. 

“No,” he whispers furiously, “inside me, please, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft's hand reaches blindly to the nightstand. He can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his little brother beneath him, in his bed. He finds the lube by habit, fingers closing around the cool bottle as he’s hit full force by the impact of what he’s about to do to Sherlock. What Sherlock has allowed him, _encouraged_ him to do. His heart is about to leap out of his chest. With a pang, he realises their first time – upon which his brain threatens to stop – will have to be in utter silence.

His lips find Sherlock’s as his hands uncap the bottle. They gasp into each other’s mouths as he pushes a slippery finger into Sherlock. Sherlock nips, licks, arches into him. He struggles to keep his panting quiet, adding more fingers, grappling with the knowledge that this really is happening, that he’s touching this most sacred part of his beloved brother. Sherlock writhes deliciously. “Now, inside me _now_ ,” he pants into Mycroft’s mouth. 

He pushes into Sherlock slowly, summoning Herculean effort to avoid spilling into his brother’s tight heat right then and there. His palms are on Sherlock’s, fingers interlaced either side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock arches into him, pupils blown, perfect teeth biting into a swollen lip for silence. 

“Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock gasps in bliss. “Move, please.” 

Mycroft thrusts, the pleasure almost unbearable. The bed sways once with the force of his thrusts, the carpet swallowing the scraping of the legs. His thighs quiver with restraint as he tries to clamp down on the part of him _aching_ to devour his little brother, to fuck him inside out. 

“Come _on,_ ” Sherlock grinds out, impatient, lovely tongue licking his bottom lip. He flexes his arse around Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft’s control snaps. He thrusts feverishly, biting down on Sherlock’s slender shoulder to avoid screaming in pleasure. Sherlock arches against him, spreads his legs wider, wrapping them tighter around Mycroft’s waist. The slick, obscene sounds of his thrusts set Mycroft’s blood on fire. 

Then Sherlock starts breathing faster, and Mycroft wraps a hand around his brother’s cock. He gets in two strokes before Sherlock is coming. His arse clenches around Mycroft's cock, and Mycroft stuffs a hand into his mouth as he empties himself inside his brother, his entire being stretched taut in scorching pleasure. 

As he climbs down from the haze he dimly registers wetness around his eyes and on his cheeks. He feels Sherlock’s graceful fingers caressing the nape of his neck, the other hand still entwined with his. His cock has softened but is still nestled warmly between Sherlock’s cheeks. 

He can feel Sherlock’s heart hammering against his. He inhales deeply. “I could get _drunk_ on your scent,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear. 

Sherlock’s lips find his. They kiss, embracing, skin warm against skin. Their kisses are open mouthed and sloppy. Perfect. Sherlock’s fingers intertwine with Mycroft’s, a graceful foot dragging slowly up and down Mycroft’s calf. Mycroft’s heart swells, fills his mouth, spills into his kisses. 

“You know I can’t sleep here,” Sherlock whispers into his mouth. 

“Mummy has never barged in on either of us,” he whispers back, pulling Sherlock closer, willing him to buy into the ridiculous argument. 

Sherlock smiles against his lips. Presses a soft kiss on the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “They’re leaving tomorrow. It’s just one more night.” 

“I won't be able to sleep,” Mycroft says softly, one hand playing with his brother’s soft curls. 

Sherlock looks up at him earnestly. “But you have to. Because I’m going to wake you up myself.” 

Mycroft kisses him until they both part breathlessly. Sherlock untangles himself reluctantly. Mesmerised, Mycroft looks his fill at his brother’s nude body as Sherlock extracts a dressing down from the dresser and shrugs it on. 

Sherlock turns around at the door, looks at him for a long moment. Mycroft holds his gaze. He wonders if it should feel awkward, because it doesn’t. It feels profoundly, unwaveringly, peacefully  _right._  

“Good night,” Sherlock smiles, then exits the room. 

*** *** *** 

 _A graceful hand lifts Mycroft’s blanket, its slender owner sliding into his bed. Sherlock’s scent wraps around Mycroft, nudging him awake. Soft lips leave loving kisses on his bare shoulder, the nape of his neck. Mycroft’s pulse races. He turns toward his brother, who melts against him, graceful body warm, pliant. Nude. A hot tongue laps at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, across his bottom lip, into his mouth. Mycroft pants. His hand flies to touch Sherlock’s forbidden cock, brush against the slit, but his little brother’s hands tug his wrists up on the pillow as Sherlock climbs silkily onto Mycroft, grinding slowly against him. Mycroft gasps, arching into his little brother. Sherlock’s lovely hands free his wrists. He sinks like molasses down Mycroft’s body. Warm breath on his cock. Sherlock licks into Mycroft’s slit before engulfing his cock in wet heat. Sherlock sucks, hums, and swallows around his cock, and Mycroft grows impossibly harder before he…_

Soft kisses on his lips and an insistent hand around the base of his cock nudge Mycroft awake. Disoriented, he wonders who could possibly be touching him so freely while he lay dreaming of his little brother… 

“Wake up,” Sherlock gasps against his lips, his hand tightening around the base of his cock. “You’re driving me out of my mind. You can’t come without me.” 

Yesterday at Baker Street. Last night, in this very bed. 

 _Not a dream._ Immense gratitude washes over him.

“Good morning,” he says. "I missed you." 

“Good morning,” Sherlock says before he’s pulled into a kiss. When Mycroft lets him come up for air Sherlock’s squirming against him. “Don’t come. Can you not come for a minute? I have to pee.” Heat snakes under Mycroft’s skin at the childish word, an old fantasy suddenly thrust forcefully into the forefront of his mind. 

An erection is digging into Mycroft’s thigh, however. He trails his fingers along the hot length, reveling in his brother’s gasps. “Are you sure you can pee?” 

“It’s your fault,” Sherlock gasps, squirming harder. “You looked even more irresistible than usual lying here having a wet dream.” 

 _Irresistible?_ He ignores the wondering pleasure at this in favour of wrapping his hand around his brother’s erection. 

“No, I need to pee,” Sherlock gasps, pulling Mycroft’s hand off. “Just… ah… let me think of a distraction.” 

Mycroft looks at the delectable sight of his brother, eyes scrunched tight, silken curls splashed out on the pillow, fingers fisted into the sheets, cock jutting out mouthwatering and rock hard. 

Mycroft glances at the slit. Licks his lips. Sherlock wants to pee. Heat pools into Mycroft’s belly. 

“I can feel you looking at me. I’ll never calm down like that,” Sherlock grumbles good naturedly. 

“I’ll give you a minute then, shall I?” Mycroft replies, getting up and pulling on his dressing gown. He looks at the lovely sight one last time before heading to the ensuite bathroom. 

A few minutes later Sherlock hurries in, gloriously nude. He smiles, raising an eyebrow at Mycroft. Mycroft turns to the sink, hard, impatient. Sherlock aims his cock and Mycroft turns around in a flash, stepping out of his dressing gown to stand next to his little brother, holding his erection within Sherlock’s aim. 

“Oh my god,” Sherlock gasps, eyes darkening. The golden stream rushes forth from his cock, hitting Mycroft’s erection forcefully. Mycroft whimpers, eyes watering with pleasure, angling his cock to be covered by as much of the spray as possible. 

“Up and down my cock, please,” he gasps, vision swimming. Sherlock complies breathlessly, aiming his warm gush up and down Mycroft’s cock. The pressure against Mycroft’s erection is delicious agony. He could come from this alone. His jaw goes slack at the sight of the golden stream spurting forcefully from Sherlock’s cock, swirling in Mycroft’s slit and drenching his cock. 

The stream begins to slow. Mycroft falls to his knees in a panic, stroking himself, lips parting immediately. Sherlock moves his cock away but Mycroft’s hand whips out to grip Sherlock’s. The thinning stream trickles down his chin as he guides Sherlock’s cock to his mouth. Mycroft laps the golden drops thirstily, dips his tongue into the slit, then swallows Sherlock whole. Sherlock gasps, cock stiffening further in Mycroft's mouth, arms flailing around him. Sherlock wraps a hand around the bathtub safety bar behind him, the other hand grasping the curtain rod, throwing his head back as he arches into Mycroft’s mouth. He thrusts into Mycroft’s mouth once, then tries to stop, moaning, thrusting again. Mycroft's hands squeeze Sherlock’s buttocks, encouraging him to fuck his mouth. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gasps, spilling into Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft swallows in delirious pleasure, the scent of Sherlock's musk and sex and the cock pulsing against his tongue sending his own orgasm whirling through him. Mycroft steadies himself on Sherlock’s thighs, liquid pleasure shooting out of his untouched cock. 

Sherlock’s softening cock slips out of his mouth. He pants, shaking with pleasure, open mouth nuzzling Sherlock’s soft inner thigh. Waves of intense pleasure course through his body. He bends in half, splaying his hands on the cool floor tiles, trying to calm down. 

Finally Mycroft raises his head slowly. The shattered tenderness in Sherlock’s eyes makes his chest tighten in a wonderful way. Sherlock pulls him up. With Herculean effort, Mycroft resists the kiss. “Let me, er… wash my m-” he rasps before Sherlock claims his lips, plundering his mouth. 

“That,” Sherlock kisses him, then, “was utterly,” another kiss, “ _filthy_ ,” Sherlock whispers into his mouth. “Thank you.” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “It used to drive me nearly out of my mind,” he says, still panting, "whenever you'd go to relieve yourself." 

“Oh god,” Sherlock breathes, gathering him into a hug. “Did you get hard?” 

“Well,” Mycroft manages, mind fogging as Sherlock drags his stubble across Mycroft’s jaw, his cheek, “that’s my uniform response to you anyway.” 

“What happened then?” 

“The first time? I came. In my pants. I barely made it to my room in time.” 

Sherlock pulls back, smile blindingly beautiful and tender. They kiss, wet and slow, lips and tongues mashing together. 

When they come up for air, Mycroft presses one last soft kiss on his brother’s mouth. “Shower?” 

His heart threatens to spill out of him again at Sherlock’s happy smile as he leads him into the bathtub.

*** *** *** 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mention of mouth-to-mouth food swapping.
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to the amazing dioscureantwins for listening to me rant endlessly. I owe this chapter to her, because it only came together after I got the rant out of my system. Every Holmescest shipper already knows her amazing work, but for the tiny minority who don’t, don’t let my bad writing deter you from trusting my judgment on her stories: She is an amazing writer, and her Holmescest is among the finest there is. All her fics are well worth a read. The two fics closest to my heart are Like A Rock and The Promises One Keeps. I have spent many happy hours lost in her Holmescest and I regularly revisit her wonderful stories. So run over there and read her lovely stories, and make sure you leave a lot of love there.
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited. My sincerest apologies for all the mistakes.

 

Showering with Sherlock, Mycroft discovers in a daze, defeats the purpose. Something about washing each other to save time blinks dimly at the edge of his brain, but the nape of his little brother’s neck is wet and soft under Mycroft’s tongue, and the bottle of expensive shower gel tumbles forgotten to the floor of the tub as Mycroft drags his fingers slowly in the frothy rivulets dripping down Sherlock’s back, disappearing between his buttocks, pink and slippery under Mycroft’s hands. Sherlock moans in pleasure and arches his back, his head of wet, glossy curls falling on Mycroft’s shoulder.

When his little brother twists gracefully in his arms to face him, Mycroft pulls him into a kiss, wet and warm and open-mouthed and sloppy. Sherlock angles them a little farther from the spray and wraps his arms around Mycroft. Water splatters and the steam rises, cocooning them; Mycroft barely notices, fingers greedily wandering the expanse of soft skin, fondling the lovely, flaccid cock because it makes Sherlock gasp deliciously into his mouth and Mycroft can’t get enough of those gasps.

Drying Sherlock with fluffy towels is unexpectedly reassuring, Mycroft discovers as well. It seems ludicrous that such a mundanely ordinary activity can help steady his hammering heart, but it does, because he’s towelling his little brother, his _lover,_ nude and warm and pliant and reaching for Mycroft. Mycroft discovers he doesn’t need to lose precious contact with his brother’s body in order to towel him dry, because as he dries Sherlock off he also kisses his back, nuzzles his neck, presses soft kisses just below his ear and along his jaw, until Sherlock snatches the towel away impatiently and pulls Mycroft into a heated kiss. And when Mycroft can’t help himself and starts to harden against Sherlock’s hip, Sherlock curls his long fingers languidly around Mycroft’s cock, whispering impishly against his lips that if it were not for Mycroft’s job and their parents, something could just be done about that.

Naked or not, Sherlock can’t spend all day in his arms, even though he fits _perfectly_ in Mycroft’s arms, even though Mycroft knows Sherlock belongs in his arms, knows it with every cell in his body, logic be damned. Sherlock kisses him, slow and tender, and leaves to get dressed in his room and start coffee and breakfast for all four of them, and Mycroft stands bereft and hard, and forces his body to get dressed, resolutely not looking at the bed where he fell apart in Sherlock’s arms last night, where Sherlock woke him up from yet another dream about him this morning, and took him apart again.

Tonight it will be just the two of them in the house, he reminds himself. He can finally hear Sherlock’s moans as Mycroft sucks his cock dry, his gasps as Mycroft makes love to him with his fingers and his tongue and his cock. Mycroft can growl in white hot pleasure as he spills into his brother’s tight heat. Tonight he will come undone at Sherlock’s touch again, but this time he can gather his brother in his arms afterwards and fall asleep holding his precious form, knowing that, come morning, he will find him in his arms again.

Bliss. Pure, utter bliss. Terrifying, because he knows it can’t last, because life doesn’t suddenly drop your greatest desire in your lap just like that.

He will need a few more minutes before he can get dressed, Mycroft realises, and tries to calm down.

*** *** ***

Breakfast is a blur – their parents have overslept and they have a train to catch. Mycroft walks into the kitchen to find Sherlock has produced delicious omelettes and excellent coffee, and while their parents marvel at his hitherto unknown culinary prowess, Mycroft can only see soft, tousled curls that his fingers can’t card through, a slender, relaxed frame that he can’t pull close. Sherlock grins at him brightly, and it seems positively _outrageous_ not to be allowed to greet that loveliness with a kiss.

Long fingers brush Mycroft’s on one pretext or another throughout the meal, and Mycroft steals glances at his brother munching away, comforted by the intense pleasure that always bubbles within him watching his little brother eat. As lovely as the food is – and it is very good – he can only swallow a few bites, his stomach tightening in the most wonderful of ways. Sherlock keeps offering him bright smiles and warm glances, spilling with something Mycroft still can’t believe is directed at _him_ , and Mycroft finds it astonishing that, of all the things he is _aching_ to do to his gorgeous brother, the thing he wants most now is a hug.

As Mycroft’s chauffeur takes them all to the train station, Sherlock is again squeezed between Mycroft and the window. This trip requires a lot more concentration from Mycroft this time round, however: He has to deflect his mother’s usual concerns, much more vocal now after a good night’s sleep and a fortifying, if rushed, breakfast. He doesn’t _want_ to tear his focus away from his brother’s warm thigh against his, and he has to consciously work at keeping the irritation out of his responses to his mother. Then he recalls his own terror for Sherlock’s safety throughout the past, hellish year and feels a little more understanding towards his mother. Sherlock’s form glows in the periphery of his vision, warm and reassuringly close, and he resigns himself to the same questions Mummy asks every visit.

No, he is not lonely. (“The British government is never lonely, Mummy,” Sherlock interjects, impish and flippant and infinitely precious, leaning across Mycroft, curls falling into his eyes, slender fingers resting casually on Mycroft’s thigh, and Mycroft clenches his fingers around his knee to keep them from brushing the soft fringe from his brother’s forehead.) No, he has absolutely no interest in marriage and even less interest in children. (“Children? When he’s got me?” Sherlock nudges his arm and grins as their parents fall over each other to admonish Sherlock, even as their eyes rake over him as though making sure he’s truly alive and in one piece. Mycroft knows, because he seeks the same reassurance every time he glances at his brother.) No, he doesn’t need vacations; there’s no square patch on the planet he can visit without surveillance. Their parents commiserate about how being a workaholic is in fashion nowadays and how nobody wants to have children anymore, and Mycroft wonders why Sherlock does not ridicule the idea of a vacation. He stores the question for later, distracted by the pattern the sunlight makes on Sherlock’s hands.

Tomorrow he will fling open his curtains and watch the sunlight drench Sherlock’s porcelain skin, nude and warm with sleep in his bed. He will trace the light on his brother’s skin reverently, fingers and tongue and lips saying what he cannot put into words.

He wishes he could get home today before the sun is out.

He glances at the pale skin turned golden in the light. He wishes he could paint.

As they make their way to the platform, Sherlock hovers deliciously close to him, looking even more striking than usual in elegant casual wear. A familiar anger flares in his belly at the numerous appreciative, openly inviting glances directed at Sherlock. He swallows back the urge to pull Sherlock possessively close, to crush him in a kiss and take him home so he can peel off those maddening low riding, slim fitting jeans, tear off Sherlock’s leather jacket, snug against his brother’s lean torso, fur lining indecently brushing those exquisite cheekbones and that beautiful jaw, and fuck him inside out.

He’d like to _burn_ those clothes, dripping with other people’s oily, filthy lust. _Dear God._ He is appalled at himself, even though he knows this is just a phase. (He doesn’t know it, not really, because these feelings are nothing like the commonplace “love” people have divided into convenient phases and types, because what he feels for Sherlock is much more than that, certainly indivisible, and Sherlock is much more than merely the love of his life. He is Mycroft’s… everything. There are no words, he finds, for what he feels for Sherlock, for what Sherlock is to him.)

The searing glances Sherlock keeps throwing at him make his pulse race even as they make him wonder: What does Sherlock see when he looks at him? Mycroft knows he’s not much to look at. He has taught himself how to dress to impress. Decades ago, he found he noticed poise and discovered it came to him naturally, so he perfected it. He knows he’s a genius, though he doesn’t think of it with any particular relish. It’s a simple fact that he understands and has nurtured and cultivated because it would be idiotic not to, but he knows he can take no credit for it. He was born a genius to a genius mother and an ordinary father, and he could have just as easily been born ordinary.

He can understand infatuation and lust over someone who is essentially simply a brain. He knows Sherlock has always looked up to him in that area. But it doesn’t explain the heat in Sherlock’s beautiful eyes, directed at him. At Mycroft. If it didn’t set his skin on fire and leave him breathless, he would’ve laughed at the absurd idea. Because he knows that as razor sharp and powerful as his brain is, he is just that. A brain. Sherlock, on the other hand, has both breathtaking mental acuity and stunning beauty in spades.

Mycroft is suddenly fiercely grateful for the intelligence to which he doesn’t usually spare a second thought, if it’s the one thing he has that draws his mesmerising brother to him.

Their parents are finally on the train. Guilt stabs him again as he looks at his father making his way slowly, bent and frail, to his seat. He knows he could have made them feel more welcome. They have nothing urgent to return to anyway; he could have insisted they stay a few more days. It’s what he usually does every time they visit and they always accept. It’s what he would have no doubt done this time… had his entire life not been rocked and hurled upside down in the most wonderful of ways only yesterday.

It really only happened yesterday, he reminds himself in wonder.

Given the past two months (the past three _years_ , he corrects himself) his mother, intelligent, tough woman that she is, will attribute his unusual behaviour to the natural exhaustion after so much agony and hard work for Sherlock’s safety. A fierce wave of protectiveness for his dear brother wells up in him, and he glances at Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him reassuringly healthy and well and _alive_.

Suddenly the notion of a vacation doesn’t seem ridiculous at all… if he can spend it with Sherlock.

He watches the train roll away as memories flash before him of summers with his parents and Sherlock, his feelings for Sherlock burning stronger and brighter every day, showing no signs of abating. His struggle to perfect his half-bemused, half-indifferent mask day after day, year after year, watching Sherlock saunter around in swimming trunks, the breeze toying with his curls, sun-kissed skin glistening with sunscreen that Sherlock used to make Mycroft apply himself (“Please, My – if I go out on the beach without it that supremely dull boy-” it was always a boy, and it always made Mycroft’s blood boil in rage, “will insist on applying it again and apparently he thinks sunscreen is a euphemism for free groping pass”). He remembers his little brother lying on his stomach in Mycroft’s bed (“I can’t risk getting anything on my books, Mycroft; come _on_ already), clad only in swimming trunks that rested calmly on the top of his perfect arse, molded to his cheeks and thighs. Beside himself with lust and head over heels in love, Mycroft relished every moment spent massaging lotion into pale, soft skin, his slow, tender movements masquerading as bemused boredom.

The idea that his brother has not only been… interested in Mycroft all this time but had also tried – in his clumsy, adolescent manner – to approach Mycroft fills him with warm affection tinged with regret.

All those years. Wasted. Gone.

What would a vacation with Sherlock be like now?

Warm waves, a sunny beach, Sherlock’s brilliant mind focused solely on him. A lot of sunscreen, no need for any pretenses this time.

The two of them, together. Just them.

Somewhere they can be a random couple, his brain suggests, promptly threatening to short-circuit at the idea.

His arm around his brother’s waist, no one the wiser. Warm sand under their bare feet. A stolen kiss, two, three, marking Sherlock as _his_ to any onlookers, people he would never see again, insignificant strangers who are nevertheless significant (and how ludicrous is that) because he can show off his possessive touch on his brother’s skin, his lips on Sherlock’s mouth, a seat reserved for him next to Sherlock anywhere they go…

One room with one bed, to which he can escort Sherlock every night in full sight of any onlookers, his hand on the small of his brother’s back and not clenched, unable to touch. His skin tingles.

Suddenly, the idea of a vacation morphs from merely _not_ ridiculous into absolutely necessary.

The train is long gone, and Sherlock has turned to him, the look in his bluegreen eyes questioning, unguarded, heated. Mycroft smiles at him, anxious to get back to the car and savour the few remaining moments of Sherlock’s proximity before he is forced to give it up until this evening.

Mindful of nosy eyes (even worse, his very own CCTV cameras, diligently monitoring Sherlock’s safety by his own staff per his own instructions), he averts his eyes and clears his throat. “Shall we?” He knows there is no way he can get out of work today. He sorely wishes he could. He wonders how he survived those two nightmarish years after the fall. He knows the imminent separation between him and Sherlock now will only be for a number of hours, after which he will go home to Sherlock as his brother and _lover,_ yet the mere idea feels physically painful. “Walters can take you anywhere. He can also be at your disposal all day if you like.” He glances at Sherlock striding in easy grace next to him. “Do you have plans?”

“Raising the solid partition,” Sherlock says in a calm voice, eyes glittering as they meet Mycroft’s gaze. Mycroft’s skin heats.

Mycroft watches his brother’s lithe backside enter the car before following him inside. The second the partition slides shut, their lips meet hungrily. Mycroft is _starving_ , he can’t kiss enough, he can’t touch enough. Sherlock’s tongue against his is _bliss._ His fingers try frantically to reach skin as Sherlock turns sideways, folds one leg under him on the backseat and leans into the kiss, his slender fingers gripping Mycroft’s head. As if Mycroft could possibly tear his mouth away.

“If I wrinkle your suit, can you take the rest of the day off and come home with me?” Sherlock asks breathlessly.

“I… I can’t,” Mycroft gasps into his mouth, “I’m sorry, Sherlock. You know I-”

“I know, I know,” Sherlock grinds out, and the desperation in his voice leaves Mycroft giddy and rock hard. “Let me suck you then. Oh, you’ll get out sexy and impeccable as _always,_ ” Sherlock whispers against Mycroft’s lips, “I’ll swallow every drop.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft gasps, hips bucking.

“Fuck me, then,” Sherlock whispers silkily into his mouth, tugging Mycroft’s hands and placing them on his buttocks. “Just pull your cock out and-”

“Oh, good god,” Mycroft gasps, hands squeezing Sherlock’s arse. “Are you _trying_ to make me come in my pants?”

Sherlock keens in frustration and sucks brutally on Mycroft’s tongue. Mycroft succumbs gladly to the kiss, fingers carding through Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock’s scent filling him, swirling into his very core. He barely notices the fingers avoiding his tie and deftly working open his second and third buttons until Sherlock tears his mouth away from Mycroft’s and sinks to the floor of the car, pushing the window he created in Mycroft’s shirt open to lick at his chest before latching onto the skin and suckling savagely. Mycroft gasps, the sensation sending him teetering suddenly, _shockingly_ on the brink. Sherlock’s tongue worries the bruise as Mycroft gulps in ragged breaths, closing his eyes and concentrating on stepping down from the edge.

A soft kiss lands on his lips. He opens his eyes. “We’re almost there,” Sherlock says, intertwining their fingers, still kneeling, admiring his handiwork. He peers up into Mycroft’s face, breath erratic, eyes glazed and lips kiss-swollen.

“You’re beautiful,” Mycroft breathes. Sherlock smiles, moving closer between Mycroft’s legs. “I… I wish I could get out of work today-”

“I _know,_ ” Sherlock insists, fingers tightening around Mycroft’s. Grateful affection floods Mycroft. “I know. I’ll have your driver drop me at Baker Street. Oh for…” Sherlock stares at him, incredulous, even though he can’t help it. Mycroft knows it’s ridiculous, pathetic even, but he desperately wants to hear Sherlock say he doesn’t care, has never cared for John that way, if only so Mycroft can know if it’s true. “I need to get more clothes. And some of my equipment. Er, well, only if-”

Mycroft crushes their lips together, swallowing back his insecurity. “Of course. Bring anything you want. You don’t need to ask.”

“I would’ve brought over all my belongings two months ago if I’d known it would make you do _this_ ,” Sherlock says breathlessly. Mycroft pulls him into his arms, savouring the precious proximity. Sherlock’s hair is fragrant with Mycroft’s shampoo and Sherlock’s own scent. Mycroft’s heart feels about to burst.

Sherlock lets Mycroft hold him until Mycroft pulls himself together. Sherlock is silent, pliant in his embrace, arms wrapped tightly around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“I’m going to miss you,” Mycroft says quietly.

Sherlock presses a long, tender kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “I’m going to miss you more. I always, _always_ miss you more.”

Mycroft is about to contradict the ludicrous statement when the car glides to a stop. He knows his chauffeur wouldn’t dream of opening the door and will even wait a few minutes before using the intercom, but he still feels far from ready to leave. “Please don’t get into trouble,” he begins, and cringes at his choice of words, fingers flying to soothe, rubbing up and down Sherlock’s arms in a silent apology.

“Worried. Always so worried,” Sherlock muses, eyes soft, unoffended. “I can promise you I won’t get into any more trouble than I have to.”

Mycroft traces the shape of Sherlock’s cupid’s bow. _Be safe. Please, be safe._ It’s only until tonight, he tells himself. He presses one last kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, and steps out.

There. In the centre of his chest, in his gut. The physical pain from a kick in the gut, at the sight of the car carrying his brother away.

Ridiculous. He sighs, squares his shoulders, and walks toward the building. His mobile pinges.

_8:57 Not in trouble so far. I miss you already. SH_

He feels ridiculous, but he’s floating, not walking. The mundane din hitting his ears sounds melodious. The colours around him are brighter. The air feels fresh, smells fragrant, _tastes_ sweet, for heaven’s sake.

He replies, then studies his text.

_8:59 I miss you more. Be safe. MH_

He wonders if feeling ridiculous is always this good.

*** *** ***

The vacation idea needs planning if he’s going to escape his own hand-picked team’s surveillance. He can ask Anthea to book him into the most anonymous location she can find, and it _will_ be anonymous just as he has asked -- except when it comes to Anthea herself and therefore his team. The only argument for surveillance is, as always, his concern for Sherlock’s safety. But surely if they were to disappear for a few days, this is the best, safest time to do it? He can’t make up his mind.

At any rate, the feasibility of any sort of vacation starts to dwindle rapidly not five minutes after he steps into his office. Everyone is eager for his attention, and due to the past two months he needs to personally do things he always delegates to his staff: All the congratulations from prime ministers and ambassadors around the world on Sherlock’s pardon and safety must be replied to in his own handwriting. It’s imperative that he himself revise all the traffic produced by his team on the myriad (albeit less urgent) thwarted terrorist activity uncovered in London throughout the past two months. Slow, arduous work his secretary herself would consider beneath her.

It’s in his last meeting before lunch – a rather informal chat, of all things, with the Prime Minister – when the vacation issue miraculously pops up. The Prime Minister remarks that he expected Mycroft to take a week off at the very least “after the  last few years, really, if you think about it, since the most unfortunate business of that fall.” Mycroft pounces, lamenting the impossibility of a much-needed vacation, making sure he shudders theatrically at the idea of being away from the office doing nothing (“the very notion, sir”), admitting that a few carefree days with Sherlock after everything they’ve been through for three years in a row would do his parents a world of good. He would find the three of them an ideal vacation spot and be done with it if he could, “but they won’t have it, sir”. He heaves his most put-upon sigh, adding, “They will have to wait until both my brother and I are available, then – what else can I do?” To which the Prime Minister nods sagely and confides that he hopes when his children grow up he won’t be as overbearing as his parents are now.

By the time the chat is over he’s been reluctantly “coaxed” by the Prime Minister into taking four days off. (“An _entire_ week? I’d go out of my mind with boredom, sir,” because it’s supremely idiotic to imagine evading surveillance for a whole week.) He has also received the man’s personal assurance his parents will be under no surveillance whatsoever (“a surefire way to ruin a good vacation, Mycroft, I know firsthand,” and Mycroft clucks his tongue in sympathy) as long as the route and destination get security clearance and no one is told about his plans.

Now all he has to do is find a solution to the issue of his parents, because the vacation he has in mind is only for Sherlock and him. He cannot wait to text Sherlock. Sitting back at his desk, he decides to wait until he gets home to Sherlock so he can tell him in person. _Home to Sherlock,_ he repeats to himself, the words addictively sweet on his tongue.

There are ten minutes left until lunch. Not having had much to eat at breakfast, Mycroft is suddenly aware of how starving he is. He shuffles the remaining pile of reports on his desk, understandably taller than usual given his recent absence yet still inexcusably chaotic. A manila envelope pokes out, completely out of place among the sleek files favoured in his office. He notices one very detailed traffic report usually considered too inconsequential for him to wade through himself. His team should know better, he thinks in feeble disgust, as he puts both offending items at the very bottom of the stack.

_Sherlock’s arms around Mycroft’s neck under the shower, standing in Mycroft’s arms in the rising steam, lips parting immediately for Mycroft’s kisses. Sherlock’s slender waist slippery under Mycroft’s fingers as he holds him close while they kiss, warm water sluicing down his little brother’s soft skin._

“Sir, your brother’s here,” Anthea says, poking her head in and startling him out of his reverie.

“Show him in, of course,” he replies, heart hammering suddenly as he rises up. “Where is he?”

“On his way up,” she says. “Would you like anything for lunch, sir?”

“You haven’t had lunch yet? You barely ate at breakfast,” Sherlock’s voice comes, warm with concern, as he materialises at the door. “Are you all right?”

“I could order some soup if you’re feeling unwell, sir,” Anthea suggests.

“No, I’m absolutely fine, thank you, both of you,” he says, anxious for Anthea to leave.

“Mycroft, you have to eat something. Anthea, could you have someone send four sandwiches from-”

“ _Four?_ ” Mycroft asks, bemused, basking in Sherlock’s concern.

“I’m having lunch here too,” Sherlock says. _Oh._ His heart flutters. “Anthea, would you please have someone fetch four sun-dried turkey sandwiches? Thanks.”

“Anything else, sir?” Anthea asks, glancing fondly at Sherlock.

“Please make sure I’m not disturbed for any reason until we’re done here. The sandwiches can wait,” he adds with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock locks the door behind her and Mycroft finds himself pushed against the wall. Their lips meet, and Mycroft loses himself in the kiss, his brain hungrily registering every nuance surrounding his brother. Soft hair tendrils smelling faintly of… Mycroft’s own bed linen. _Oh._ Catching up on some sleep in Mycroft’s bed. He thinks he might melt at the picture of Sherlock asleep in his bed. The kiss turns searing as Sherlock’s clothed erection nudges his own, and he pulls his brother flush against him as he wonders whether Sherlock happened to fall asleep in Mycroft’s bed or… had been seeking Mycroft’s own ordinary scent. He doesn’t want to know. (Not really; he would _love_ to know, but he’s lucky enough to be getting any of this at all. He is certainly not going to push Sherlock for anything he won’t say of his own volition. For heaven’s sake, seeking Mycroft’s scent? Ridiculous, even for a fool in love.)

A faint whiff of… cloying dust, overpowering eau de cologne. Baker Street.

_John._

“Stop deducing where I spent my morning,” Sherlock whispers against his lips, “unless you’re not interested in kissing me.”

Mycroft deepens the kiss, relishing Sherlock’s pleased whimper. This morning Sherlock said he was going to Baker Street. He didn't hide it, and now he's here to see Mycroft -- he’s in Mycroft's arms, for heaven's sake. This should be reassurance enough. He tries to ignore the ugly insecurity clawing at his gut. It would drive Sherlock away… too soon.

A lifetime with this love has taught him how to compartmentalise in a heartbeat. It’s even easier to do so now with Sherlock’s sweet tongue gliding against his, Sherlock's lean form arching into Mycroft, kissing and nipping and biting off little hot mewls. Mycroft loses himself in the kiss, hands carding reverently through Sherlock’s silky curls to slide down his graceful back and squeeze his buttocks as they grind at each other.

Graceful fingers try to tug his zipper down. His hands fly to his button but Sherlock’s hand stills them. “No.”

Mycroft is mortified. “Er… Sorry. I thought-”

“Oh, I _am_ going to suck you off,” Sherlock says against Mycroft's lips as Mycroft’s cock thickens and throbs. “I want you fully dressed though.” Sherlock’s eyes rake over him, glittering. He rocks languidly against Mycroft, hot tongue on Mycroft's earlobe as he whispers in Mycroft's ear, “I want your cock out. _Only_ your cock.”

“Wh… What?” He gasps, mouth dry.

“A fantasy of mine.” Sherlock presses open-mouthed kisses along Mycroft’s jaw, fingers dragging the zipper down slowly. “You completely dressed, so _obscenely_ chic as usual.” Sherlock’s fingers snake in, the friction exquisite as he maneuvers Mycroft's cock out, swirling his thumb in the leaking slit. “Every inch of you covered in expensive, hand-tailored wool, driving me insane,” Sherlock whispers against his lips, stroking his cock languidly, “then you take out your cock. My brother's cock, hard for me.”

Mycroft exhales shakily, hands clumsily grasping for purchase on the wall behind him.

“You drove me out of my mind every time you came home to visit from university,” Sherlock explains silkily, clever fingers stroking Mycroft, “from London.” He kisses Mycroft messily, swallowing his whimpers. “Stealing my breath away, never noticing me.”

“I-” Another smouldering, messy kiss silences Mycroft before Sherlock sinks to his knees. Mycroft gasps, hands tangling in Sherlock’s curls. “I’ve never… ah… noticed anything else, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks at him, eyes warm with dazed happiness. Sherlock's breath is hot on Mycroft's cock, leaking and visibly jerking and thickening in Sherlock's hand, a mere hair's breadth from his parted lips, that clever pink tongue. Breathlessly, Mycroft watches Sherlock’s eyes darken with lust as they focus on his cock, grits his teeth and forces himself not to thrust into that lovely mouth, then his head lolls back against the wall and his eyes flutter shut as his cock is sucked and engulfed in silky, wet heat.

Mycroft’s fingers tremble as he consciously avoids pulling on Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock’s tongue wickedly laves up and down his cock, swirls in his slit, his slender, strong hands kneading Mycroft’s buttocks. Sherlock plays him like his violin, little wet pants and hums as he suckles and swallows like he's dying of thirst for Mycroft's cock. He struggles to open his eyes, desperate to look at his beautiful brother. The sensation and the sight of his precious brother on his knees, on his _knees_ before him wring soundless gasps out of Mycroft’s mouth as his entire body seizes up.

His fingers tug lightly at Sherlock’s hair in warning. Sherlock only takes him deeper into his mouth. Mycroft’s head hits the wall behind him as his orgasm crashes through him, spilling into Sherlock’s mouth.

As the haze starts to dissipate, he feels light, tender kisses on the inside of his thigh, graceful hands moving soothingly up and down his hips before tucking him back in carefully and zipping him up. Breathing is suddenly unusually hard, and a film of something hot stings his eyes and renders everything blurred, which is not only strange but also unacceptable, because Mycroft wants to look his fill at Sherlock, who is kneeling before him, lips swollen and glistening because he's just swallowed… _swallowed_ Mycroft’s release.

His knees are about to buckle, and Sherlock is up and steadying him in a flash.

“You’re shaking,” Sherlock says quietly, gathering Mycroft into his arms. Mycroft doesn’t understand why his clever brother sounds confused. His limbs are uncoordinated as one hand fists in Sherlock’s shirt and the other curls desperately into Sherlock's curls, his lips seeking Sherlock’s. He melts into the kiss, intense relief flooding him as Sherlock puts him slowly back together.

Slowly, his trembling subsides. Sherlock laps at his tongue and bottom lip in between shaky pants before pushing Mycroft to sit on the couch. Sherlock remains standing and his hands start undoing his button, fully erect cock a thick, snug length at Mycroft's mouth level.

“Ah, you want to watch,” Sherlock says breathlessly, lips stretched into a devilish smile, fierce tenderness in his eyes. He tears open his trousers frantically, cock springing out enticingly before Mycroft’s face, Sherlock’s musk invading his senses. His mouth waters.

The spectacular orgasm he has just had has indeed knocked it out of him, but he hears a packet ripped open, and the sight of a condom about to cover Sherlock’s mouthwatering cock settles it for him. His hand stills Sherlock’s. “No condom,” he says.

“Mycroft, I… I’ll make a mess,” Sherlock gasps, stroking himself.

“You won’t,” he says, tugging his brother forward with a hand on each arse cheek to lap at Sherlock's leaking slit, relishing the way Sherlock gasps, hips bucking, precome smearing Mycroft's parted lips. “Come on," Mycroft urges, voice slurred as his brother's cock brushes his tongue, "stroke yourself.”

The sight of Sherlock’s cock disappearing and reappearing in his brother’s fist is mesmerising. Sherlock’s strokes speed up, and Mycroft licks and laps at the head sliding in and out of his mouth, tugging Sherlock closer. Sherlock scrambles to plant a knee on the couch either side of Mycroft, frenzied strokes fucking Mycroft's mouth.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gasps urgently, gliding deeper into Mycroft's mouth, cock pulsing against Mycroft’s tongue. Mycroft’s eyes flutter shut in pleasure, his hands squeezing his brother’s buttocks as he sucks and milks Sherlock, swallowing every drop.

Sherlock’s eyes are glazed as he climbs back down. He tumbles onto the couch next to Mycroft in delicious uncoordinated grace, cock out. Mycroft's hand wraps unthinkingly around it, fondling the thick length, watching hungrily until it's softened completely in his hand. He tucks Sherlock's cock back in and does up his trousers before finding himself pulled into a long, languid, sloppy kiss. He kisses back gladly, a powerful, heady sense of coming home settling into his bones and flowing through him. His fingers can’t sit still, playing with Sherlock’s curls, moving in soothing circles up and down Sherlock’s arms and back, gripping Sherlock’s precious head, lost in kisses that are all tenderness and tongue and the mingled taste of their come.

“How come you never said anything?” Sherlock asks softly against his lips. He pulls back to peer earnestly into Mycroft’s face. “All those years… _Why_ didn’t you say anything?”

Mycroft sighs. “I’ll never regret anything more, believe me.”

Sherlock smiles, bemused, and interlaces their fingers. “I’m equally to blame, don’t you think?”

“Of course not. I’ve always read you like an open book. I can’t believe I missed this.”

“You think you’ve always read me like an open book?” Sherlock raises a perfect eyebrow. Mycroft presses a deep kiss on those perfect lips. They part immediately for him, Sherlock’s fingers moving hypnotically against his.

“I don’t think it. I know it,” Mycroft says, when he lets them come up for air.

“Then why won’t you believe this is really happening?”

“I…” But how can he possibly explain that this _doesn’t_ happen, that the love of your life doesn’t simply turn around one day, after you’ve spent over half your life pining for him, walk into your arms, and say he has been pining for you as well. Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with tenderness as he crushes his lips to Mycroft’s, and Mycroft is at a loss over the frantic desperation in Sherlock’s kiss, the way his hands grip Mycroft’s head _again,_ as if he’s worried Mycroft might leave. Surely it’s obvious to his clever little brother that there’s nowhere else Mycroft would rather be, he thinks, flummoxed.

“Oh, _Mycroft,_ ” Sherlock sighs, pulling back to look at him. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“What?” Mycroft’s asks dazedly, mouth following his brother’s lips.

“I’m the lottery winner here, genius,” Sherlock whispers against his lips.

What a ridiculous thing to say, he thinks over the violent, giddy lurch his heart gives. “Ridiculous. And… well, and patently not true.”

The tenderness in Sherlock’s eyes threatens to shatter him, so he kisses Sherlock instead.

*** *** ***

Just over an hour later, he is accosted by the same kicked-in-the-gut feeling again as Sherlock leaves.

He’s feeling much better now that he’s had something to eat. And he really should abandon _that_ particular train of thought if he’s going to go through the reports on his desk before his remaining meetings today. Cranberry mayonnaise tastes sinfully good, Mycroft has just discovered, when licked off the corner of Sherlock’s lips. Olives stolen out of Sherlock’s lovely mouth taste even more delicious than they usually do, he decides, touching his lips.

He forces himself to stop wondering how heavenly dessert would taste, and promises himself he will find out tonight. Perhaps Sherlock will let him taste fresh strawberries from his little brother’s mouth, before sucking rich cream off his soft skin. He licks his lips, steadies his breath, resolving to get some work done.

Sherlock is sorely mistaken, he thinks affectionately. Because Mycroft is definitely the lottery winner here. The idea of that vacation sounds better and better every second. And he actually forgot to even mention it to Sherlock, he discovers. Well, he will tonight. Over dessert. The perfect setting, he thinks, picturing his brother’s delight at the surprise.

Still smiling, he picks the detailed traffic report first. If his team has been slipping in his absence, he needs to tackle the issue as soon as possible.

The smile slowly slips off his face as a certain whisper in the report catches his eye. The Moriarty impostor may have been a foolish amateur with grandiose visions and laughable underestimation of Sherlock and thus Mycroft. This particular whisper, however, stands out amidst all the traffic his team has all but tweezed out of every drop of information available to them.

Icy dread sinks its teeth into his gut. Someone has managed to evade them, someone taking very careful, very intelligent steps. Slowly, quietly. Animal fear claws at him, closes around his throat.

_Sherlock._

Whoever they are must be after Sherlock. And Sherlock will be at his most vulnerable now, free and unguarded and lauded by the government, no less. And distracted by this new development between them. Even Mycroft has let his guard down enough.

A horrible thought rears its head. The Moriarty impostor was probably planted by someone much cleverer to send them all on a deliberate wild goose chase. Lull them into a false sense of safety after the expendable fake is captured and thrown in jail. Even grant Sherlock a royal pardon.

Textbook. Fucking textbook.

And he fell for it like any ordinary moron, because he was too busy drooling over his gorgeous brother and basking in his proximity.

Red hot rage flares inside him at his own foolish carelessness and his team’s negligence, both unacceptable, _inexcusable,_ but his role far, far worse.

His hand reaches blindly for the phone and he dials with unseeing eyes.

_Sherlock defending him against John’s accusations yesterday. Sherlock moving beneath him last night, welcoming Mycroft into his body with unwavering trust. Sherlock gathering him into his arms after taking Mycroft apart and putting him together again, tenderness spilling unguarded from his beautiful eyes._

Unforgivable, to let his own selfish, imbecilic pleasure risk his brother’s safety. He's no better than John.

He's no better than Mary Morstan, he discovers, horrified.

_Unforgivable._

“In my office. Immediately,” he says as soon as his secretary answers, and hangs up.

He pushes the report towards her as soon as she approaches his desk.

“Why wasn’t I informed about this as soon as it got here?” He asks quietly, dangerously.

The secretary (Raine or Regina something, as if he cares) glances at him nervously before looking at the report. She is saved by Anthea, who knocks and enters immediately. She sizes up the situation at a glance, taking the report from the terrified secretary.

“I… Sorry, sir, but Miss Anthea herself didn’t-”

“Anthea can’t be everywhere at once,” he snarls. “Surely you lot have enough brains to work that out.”

Anthea clears her throat. “We should discuss this immediately, sir. May I speak to you alone?”

He dismisses the secretary with a wave of his hand, too livid to speak. Anthea stands up suddenly, asking her to stop.

“Robin,” Anthea says, “I want a detailed, updated report on Mary Morstan. Priority Ultra. Everything, no matter how insignificant. I want details and backgrounds on all her visitors. I want information on any sexual or emotional liaisons between her and any inmates, guards, even her right hand. I want to know who she calls and who calls her and what was said in every phone call. I want to know what she’s eating, what side she sleeps on, how many times she pees. Drop anything else, _everything_ else, and get me this information first please. Thank you.”

Heart sinking in terror, Mycroft frantically presses Sherlock's number on his speed dial.

*** *** ***


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chance Emmerich is loosely based on Charles Ulrich. 
> 
> To the lovely, lovely dioscureantwins, who generously took a thorough look at another fic of mine that I have failed miserably to wrangle into shape: There's a sentence here from that fic that has strongly benefited from your beautiful betaeing. Thanks so much. <3
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited. My sincere apologies for all the ridiculous plotholes and/or plotlines.

Mycroft tries Sherlock’s number for the third time. Sherlock still doesn’t pick up.

Mycroft’s heart plunges to his feet. The untouched stack of reports on his desk stares accusingly at him. He snatches them with clammy hands and looks around his office for his briefcase. It was here… He doesn’t have _time_ for this; he has to go. _Why_ isn’t Sherlock answering his phone? The briefcase… He never forgets where he puts his things… but he’s never been pushed against these walls by his brother before, never been kissed and held as if he were someone worthy of Sherlock’s precious touch… rather than a supremely, unforgivably _selfish_ middle-aged fool who is apparently beginning to lose his mind as well.

 _Oh God._ If something happens to Sherlock because of _him…_  

His briefcase is placed on his desk and a hand tries to tug the stack of reports out of his. He raises his eyes to find Anthea... talking? Her mouth is definitely moving. Has he lost his hearing as well?

“What?” He croaks. Clears his throat.

“Your brother is still at Baker Street, sir,” Anthea says.

Why does Anthea think this will reassure him? James Moriaty broke into the flat easily and more than once. Mary Morstan waltzed in and out of Baker Street all the time before she shot Sherlock. “He’s not answering his phone,” he says, panic rising inside him as he fumbles with his briefcase. Finally he manages to close it and starts looking around him for his coat.

If only he can make sure Sherlock is fine ( _please, please let him be fine_ ), he almost wishes it _is_ Mary behind this report, he thinks, shrugging on the coat Anthea silently holds for him.

Two months ago he was forced to gag on his rage after she was apprehended: Child trafficking is not MI6 specialty and Mycroft couldn’t ask for special treatment, because his brother had murdered an upstanding citizen (idiots, the lot of them) before witnesses, and they were already doing him a favour by shipping Sherlock out of England as it was. According to them, at least. He’d like to meet the moron who thought sending Sherlock on a suicide mission in a country whose spies were _salivating_ for a chance to get back at him qualified as a favour.

Now it’s different. Now his brother is a lauded hero and, if and when Mary makes another mistake, Mycroft can order her delivered to his door, alive and unharmed. So he can make her pay.

And he will make her pay and pay dearly, for daring to point a gun at his brother. For shooting him and leaving him for dead in excruciating pain. For every drop of Sherlock’s precious blood that fell on the hospital floor, with Mycroft standing and watching cleaners indifferently mop it up as if it belonged with… spilled tea, stubbed out cigarettes, and vomit.

For the horrible, black moments when Sherlock flat-lined, and Mycroft discovered time can stand still, and the sky above him and the ground beneath him can suddenly disappear, leaving him suspended, something crushing him inwards until he couldn’t breathe.

And he, Mycroft, is the reason all of that happened. He failed to read John for the confused, “straight”, broken ex-army doctor he really is, he let Mary get too close, and then he let himself fall apart under Sherlock’s touch and forget about protecting him.

Well, that will never happen again. He will never fail Sherlock again.

“Sir?”

They’re moving, he realises – hurrying, in fact, toward the lift. “Who else is in his flat?”

“His landlady. Dr Watson left for work in the morning. I checked the surveillance footage in the flat myself. His landlady asked him to help her find an earring she lost in her flat.”

 _Surveillance?_ Mycroft stops in his tracks. “I thought I gave explicit instructions to have all cameras in the flat removed over two months ago.”

“I upgraded surveillance five weeks ago, sir, when we first got this report,” Anthea informs him, unfazed. “We placed men in the vicinity of Baker Street and Bart’s around the clock in case Mr Holmes went to either place. Surveillance has been upgraded for your parents too, naturally, sir, as well as other potential… Sir, are you all right?”

“Five weeks ago? Why wasn’t I informed then?”

“I deemed it best to wait until you and Mr Holmes were done with the impostor,” Anthea says, the mild reproach in her voice warning him that he is acting very strangely.

He must seem strange to her. It’s far from the first time Mycroft has been so busy handling a national crisis that Anthea has had to handle another. Sometimes _several_ national and international crises. They both know it. She knows Mycroft knows she doesn’t need to consult him before giving orders to kill hundreds to spare millions certain death, if it comes to that.

But those are national and international matters, which are… ridiculous, laughable nothings compared to Shelrock’s safety, he thinks, livid. Anthea has never handled anything about Sherlock on her own. Sherlock’s safety is the single thing Mycroft delegates to _no one_ , not even his most trusted second in command.

He doesn’t know how to tell her that even though he does not bat an eyelid when she juggles a potential nuclear crisis in Asia and a European hostage situation in the Middle East on her own… he is fiercely tempted to strangle her with his bare hands right now, for daring to keep something threatening Sherlock’s safety from him.

And yet… what has _he_ done to safeguard his beloved brother’s wellbeing?

One touch from Sherlock. One touch, and everything flew out of his brain. An assassin could have knocked the door down last night and broken into his bedroom and Mycroft would not have even noticed, wrapped in Sherlock, delirious with the pleasure his brother gave him so freely, so trustingly.

He grits his teeth. He will _never_ make that mistake again.

“Yes, well… Good,” he mutters, uncharacteristically flustered, stepping out of the building hurriedly. “I need an update right away, briefly though because-”

“Excellent idea, sir,” she says calmly, striding ahead towards the car.

“Yes… Let’s talk on the way to Baker Street, then,” he says, sliding into the car, gratefully aware that she has all but nudged him to the suggestion. He remembers her calm demeanour on their way to the hospital when Sherlock was shot, and how she had tried to make him feel in control then as well.

She hasn’t let her guard down. She never does. If Anthea has been working on this for weeks, Sherlock has almost certainly been rescued from Mycroft’s recklessness. Anthea’s instructions to his secretary regarding Mary throw his selfishness into sharp relief. Mycroft is horrified at himself.

 _Pull yourself together._ All he has to do now is make sure he never gets reckless again.

Ignoring the lump lodged in his throat, he gives Anthea his full attention.

*** *** ***

Anthea is nothing if not efficient, and by the time they arrive at Baker Street Mycroft has been apprised of the situation. He tells her she can leave: Walters will drive him home.

He stares at the door. The onslaught of physical sensations is overwhelming. Something hot and swollen is choking him, yet his hands are tingling, longing. Horrified, he discovers he’s half-hard in spite of his selfishness, in spite of the danger that could be threatening Sherlock at this very moment because of _him_.

A gnawing, gaping hole is hollowing out his chest at the firm knowledge that he has to end this. He has to make Sherlock believe Mycroft sincerely wants to end it.

He stepped into this house yesterday thinking his heart was about to break. Thinking Sherlock was about to move back. Then he kissed Sherlock back, touched him, tasted him, and walked out practically on air, giddy with anticipation and high on love.

A fool. A small, _stupid_ fool.

He clutches at the self-loathing frantically, because if he lets his mind slip to what he is about to give up…

 _Why_ had he followed Sherlock upstairs yesterday? Yesterday (was it only yesterday?) he thought that even if something happened between Sherlock and John, he would still have something no one else could offer Sherlock. He was his big brother, his only capable ally. In a few minutes he won’t even have that left. How could he have blindly thought nothing in the world could touch their brotherly bond?

What can he possibly say to Sherlock that won’t ruin even that?

What _will_ he say to Sherlock? He changed his mind? He belatedly remembered they were brothers?

Regret claws at his gut. _I love you._ He wanted to say it yesterday, and this morning, and in his office… He didn’t. And now he will never be able to say it.

Good, he tells himself savagely. He deserves even worse than this pain. Let it remind him never to get sidetracked again where Sherlock’s safety is concerned. Resolutely, he rings the doorbell.

He doesn’t expect Sherlock to open the door himself. Sherlock never opens the door. The hot rush of longing that tears through his veins takes him by surprise. Sherlock’s delighted surprise almost, _almost_ covers the hitch in his breath.

His eyes drop to Mycroft’s lips.

Suddenly, Mycroft doesn’t know how he’s going to do this. His distress must be visible because Sherlock’s smile wavers, concern flashing in his eyes. Mycroft tears his eyes away, stepping into the hallway. He can feel Sherlock’s gaze raking over his form as though to make sure he is okay (and isn’t that hilarious, when nothing ever touches him, when it wasn’t him who was shot, when the need to protect Sherlock thrums in his very blood, and yet he has failed at it).

Mrs Hudson opens her door. Mycroft’s heart sinks. He wants to stay in the hallway because the presence of CCTV cameras will force him not to… touch. He plasters a bland expression on his face hoping she is on her way out, but she shoos them upstairs, thanking Sherlock for finding her earring and insisting she will get them tea and scones.

Mycroft follows Sherlock into the flat, trying to swallow around the hot lump in his throat. As soon as he is inside the flat, Sherlock shuts the door, steps into Mycroft’s space, and leans in to kiss him.

It takes everything Mycroft has to turn his head away.

Sherlock goes very still. He is close enough for Mycroft to feel his body heat. Mycroft is _aching_ to pull him into his arms.

_I am so in love with you._

Mycroft forces his feet to step away. He fishes the report out of his briefcase and holds it out. “Take a look at this please.”

Sherlock turns around slowly, eyes awash with confusion. Mycroft is reminded of the last day of each break he spent home from university and, later, work, with Sherlock slumped in a corner of Mycroft’s room watching Mycroft pack, his complaints of boredom getting more distressed with every item Mycroft put into his suitcase. The imminent separation from Sherlock always tormented him, but he had never touched Sherlock as a lover then. He hadn’t tasted his neck, or heard his sighs, or seen his eyes hooded and fogged with need beneath him. He could slip on his mask effortlessly then, and he could focus.

He clears his throat. “There’s been a new development. It’s safer for you if you stay here.”

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. “What did you say?”

“We have men situated-”

“What did you-”

“-and my team upgraded your surveillance five weeks ago. The flat’s clean, but there are cameras in the hallway. Please don’t remove them, Sherlock.” Mycroft masks his horror at his own disinterested tone and looks at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock stands frozen for a moment, then lets out a short, mirthless laugh. Its brittle edges pierce Mycroft’s heart.

“So you did get second thoughts.”

“Sherlock, _look_ at this report-”

“Did someone see us? Is that it?”

“Let’s not allude to-”

“Were you bored?” Sherlock asks. “I mean, I’m an idiot compared to you and I have to resort to cocaine to silence the boredom. Were you bored? Is that it?”

“Please stop alluding to it. Take a look at this report.”

The confusion in Sherlock’s eyes is rapidly morphing into anguish. Mycroft’s fingernails dig into his palms under the intense need to touch, to pull his brother into his arms and soothe him. “You were humouring me all along. You must have been.” Sherlock takes a few rapid, shallow breaths. “Were you?”

“ _Listen_ to me. Look at this-”

“Sod the report. What’s going on?” Sherlock lowers his voice, “Did I upset you? It was repulsive, sharing food, that’s it, right? We don’t have to-”

The door to the flat is flung open. “What… Oh, you’re still here,” John says in delighted surprise. “Evening, Mycroft.”

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, closing his eyes tightly.

“Sherlock? You okay?” John asks uncertainly. When he gets no reply, John hurries towards Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

Mycroft ignores the intense _wrongness_ of John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He clears his throat. “We’re not sure yet, but it seems someone else is after Sherlock.”

“What?” John looks between them, tugging Sherlock’s slender arm. “Sit down. You look terrible. Tea,” he announces predictably. “Can this wait until I make us tea?”

“None for me, thank you,” Mycroft replies, watching Sherlock level a long, inscrutable look at John before allowing himself to be led to a chair and sat down. Mycroft places the report on the table in front of him. He lingers a moment, looking at Sherlock’s downcast head. A fierce wave of ache for his brother rushes through him. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I hurt you like this._ He shoves his hands into his pockets, his fingers itching to card through his brother’s silken mop and shake the distress off him.

Sherlock raises lost eyes to him. Mycroft can’t breathe. He stalks to the window and forces himself to check the surrounding area. He can’t make out any men on any rooftops within sight, which only means they are there and doing their job right.

Mycroft turns around as John shuffles into the room, depositing two steaming mugs on the table before Sherlock. He doesn’t sit, instead draping an arm possessively across the back of Sherlock’s chair. Hot anger roils in Mycroft’s belly.

“It can’t be Moriarty, right?” John asks.

“We don’t know yet. We believe the impostor was almost definitely a smokescreen.”

“So either it’s Moriarty, because he’s got nine lives like a bloody cat, or it’s someone else… _Jesus._ We only got rid of Magnussen two months ago,” John mutters, leaning lightly to look at the report. Mycroft doesn’t know what he means by “we”, when it was Sherlock who shot Magnussen and Sherlock who almost gave up his life for it.

And now there’s another threat.

Well, thank God Mycroft has come to his senses before it’s too late.

_Sherlock’s lips parting for him. Sherlock spilling into his mouth, pulsing hotly against his tongue. Sherlock on his knees, moaning around Mycroft in his mouth, swallowing… Sherlock in his arms, putting Mycroft back together with hushed breaths and tender kisses._

_Sherlock smiling at him, unguarded and sincere and breathtaking._

One day. Twenty-four unforgettable hours where Sherlock was his.

It feels like a lifetime of sheer, pure joy, and yet it feels like he only touched his brother for a few moments before Sherlock was snatched away from his arms.

Mycroft feels like someone has parked a car on his chest. Like he’s been kicked in the gut. Sherlock gave him a taste of heaven, and Mycroft repaid him by letting his guard down, giving a sex worker blackmail material that could ruin Sherlock and his entire family, risking his brother’s precious safety, and now, the cherry on the cake… Stabbing Sherlock then leaving him, hurt and betrayed.

His heart goes out to his beloved brother, slumped over the table, confused and hurting and intensely vulnerable.

 _He thinks I was bored._ He can’t even do Sherlock the courtesy of showing him how much Mycroft himself is hurting.

And John…

John’s arm is still draped possessively on Sherlock’s chair. Just yesterday, Mycroft was torn by jealousy, then giddy with the exhilarating suspicion that it was _his_ touch, not John’s, that Sherlock welcomed.

If his heart didn’t feel like it was being wrenched out of his chest, he would’ve laughed at his stupidity. He couldn’t be happy, he couldn’t spare the few brain cells that weren’t melting with pleasure for protecting Sherlock. No, he had to brood and wonder whether Sherlock shared, whether he expected Mycroft to share, whether he has ever let John touch him.

Serves him right. And now he has to push Sherlock into John’s arms, because he can’t leave his brother alone with his pain. Mycroft has never even imagined Sherlock would be terribly hurt in the first place if this thing between them ended. He is stunned. Even his deductive prowess is at an all-time low. What on earth does he have to offer his brother now?

He clears his throat again. “Whether or not it’s Moriarty is irrelevant at this point. It wasn't him who made the doctors announce you dead."

“Announce him… He’s sitting right here with us, Mycroft,” John replies, glaring.

He didn’t even _flinch_ at the mention of his ex-wife. Apparently he thinks he was just as much a victim as Sherlock was.

“You’ve never told him you flat-lined,” Mycroft says to Sherlock, willing him to talk, to fight, _anything_ but this dejected silence.

John is gaping at him, his face rapidly draining of colour.

“Sherlock flat-lined in hospital. After Mary shot him.”

“Oh my God,” John says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“As you just said, I’m right here,” Sherlock says in a level voice, eyes unwavering on Mycroft.

“Has your ex-wife contacted you at all since she went to jail, John?” Mycroft asks.

“What? No. Of course not.”

“If she does, please let me know. Until we know who we’re dealing with, please be careful, both of you,” he adds, looking at his brother. “Like I said, Sherlock, it’s safest for you here."

“Oh, you’re moving back here?” John asks. The joy practically leaping out of John rips Mycroft’s gut apart.

“Good evening, Sherlock. John.” He avoids looking at Sherlock as he strides out of the flat. John’s voice floats down the stairs as he asks, “Chinese? If I’d known you’d be here, I would’ve called Angelo-”

Mycroft grits his teeth. Domestic bliss, take two. How long will Sherlock last before he gives in and accepts the solace in his eager doctor’s arms?

Mycroft’s hands clench as hot, savage anger knots up his gut and smudges his vision.

He swallows angrily around the hot lump choking him, opening the car door and flumping on the backseat. He’s about to pull the door shut when it is yanked open and Sherlock slides next to him.

Mycroft’s heart starts hammering. Sherlock shifts minutely closer, and Mycroft immediately slides farther towards the window. He hangs on to his disinterested mask by the skin of his teeth. Remains silent. Lets Sherlock draw his own conclusions.

Sherlock reaches forward. Mycroft’s hand shoots out to block the button that closes the solid partition, raising the glass one instead.

The silence is deafening.

Sherlock watches the glass sliding shut, his lips quivering, his Adam’s apple moving harshly in his graceful neck.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you: It’s safer here-”

“Please do me the courtesy of telling me what this is about. We both know I’m safest at your house, with _you._ If no one saw us and there’s no one else and we both know I’m safest at your house, then-”

“I asked you not to allude to any of that.” He forces himself to get the rest of the speech out. “It was a mistake. Mine, of course. You are not to blame at all. As the older brother, I should never have-”

“ _I_ kissed you, not the other way round.”

“I… I should never have capitulated then. Rest assured it will never happen again”

“I _want_ it to happen again,” Sherlock hisses furiously. “What on earth has got into you? Did someone from your office see us? Are there cameras in your bedroom? Because-”

“Sherlock-”

“-I can fix that, and-”

“I asked you to kindly stop alluding… What? Never mind. It was a mistake-”

“You haven’t even heard how I can fix it,” Sherlock says earnestly, his hand reaching for Mycroft’s only to retreat at the last moment.

“No one’s seen… anything. _Please_ stop alluding to that.” Why not twist the knife in his own gut deeper? “Walters will bring back your things.”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “You’re serious.”

Mycroft turns to the window. He resolutely doesn’t think of this morning, Sherlock squeezed warmly between Mycroft and this very window. Kissing Mycroft. Kneeling to leave a love bite on Mycroft’s skin.

He knew it was too good to be true. Yet he foolishly let himself dream of intimate lie-ins in bed and sodding romantic vacations, for Christ’s sake. Disgustingly, revoltingly foolish.

“Look at you,” Sherlock whispers, barely audible. “Keeping your hands to yourself… away from your disgusting brother and his disgusting urges. Why didn’t you tell me yesterday? What did you think I was going to do? Follow you to work? Oh.” He laughs mirthlessly. “I already did that, didn’t I?” His fingers curl around the door handle. “Please have your surveillance cameras removed before I remove them myself. I’ll find your new Moriarty.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says hotly, fear choking him, “don’t do anything foolish. I have regrettably been foolish enough for both of us.”

Sherlock’s aloof mask is there, but in tatters. Mycroft’s heart breaks. “This is a case. This is what I do.”

He climbs out of the car and slams the door behind him. Mycroft clenches his hands, for one moment about to jump out of the car and after Sherlock.

 _Focus._ He has to focus on protecting his brother. Especially now that Mycroft himself has driven Sherlock to seek danger in order to silence his pain.

John is standing in the doorway. Mycroft watches Sherlock stride in his direction. John doesn’t move aside but instead rests a hand on his arm. Sherlock looks at the hand for a moment, before stepping inside with John and shutting the door.

The world seems distorted, warped beyond recognition, Mycroft thinks as it starts to rain…

Because he has let Sherlock down and hurt him and then pushed him away, and Sherlock is his brother but he’s also the love of his life, and Mycroft’s mouth tastes of Sherlock’s liquid pleasure but John has pulled Sherlock inside the house from the rain with his hand on Sherlock’s arm and he’s going to soothe him inside behind closed doors, and Mycroft can’t stop that from happening… and how, _how_ can this be happening?

The sudden flare of pain in Mycroft’s knee alerts him to how forcefully his fingers are clenched around it. He focuses on that pain desperately, acutely aware of the hot stinging in his eyes.

“Home, please,” he instructs the driver. His discovery that he can still talk in a level voice even when he is being ripped apart brings him no comfort whatsoever. The city passes him in a blur.

*** *** ***

He has just stepped inside his house when his mobile rings. He fishes it out of his pocket wearily. The Prime Minister’s personal number.

_The vacation._

Pain stabs through him. There’s no point in discussing it anymore. Even after the new threat is eliminated, Sherlock will hardly stand to speak to him, let alone accompany him on a trip to “relax”.

Through some convoluted logic, the Prime Minister insists this is the best time to go ahead with the trip. It will have to be under maximum surveillance, he says apologetically. Surely Mycroft understands, with the new threat they’re facing. But it will be an excellent opportunity to lure out whoever is behind the threat, make it seem like they really have let their guard down while in reality they will be the ones several steps ahead. It would be killing several birds with one stone, the Prime Minister assures him.

He makes vaguely thoughtful noises at the Prime Minister and eventually gets him to shut up and end the call.

The idea of having lost the chance to have Sherlock all to himself, away from everyone and everything, threatens to undo Mycroft. He trudges upstairs and collapses in a stupor on his bed. Sherlock’s scent in the sheets wafts out.

Deep sorrow spreads inside him and settles heavily in his bones. He curls around himself, tries to squeeze the gaping hole inside him shut.

Unthinkable: He had thought he knew what grief was. When Sherlock planned his fall. When Sherlock was in another country dismantling networks and facing danger for two long, empty years. When Sherlock was shot.

How wrong he’s been.

This, _this_ is what grief really feels like. This bone-deep sorrow that’s crushing him until he can’t breathe.

He burrows his nose into the pillows, inhaling Sherlock’s precious scent. He feels wrung dry, and before he knows it he tumbles into an uneasy sleep.

*** *** ***

The bed dips, and Mycroft scrambles to sit up.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock whispers, sliding into bed, wrapping an arm around Mycroft’s torso. “I’m so sorry.”

Mycroft immediately gathers his brother into his arms… before remembering what happened earlier. He wrenches himself away and tries to scoot to the far edge. “What are you doing?”

Sherlock looms above him, an ethereal, exotic angel. A tender smile plays on his lips. “I cannot believe you. What if I hadn’t figured it out sooner?”

“What are you talking about?” He tries to sit up and get out of bed. Sherlock pushes him back and pins him to the bed. “Obviously I… forgot to ask you not to abuse the spare key I-”

Sherlock kisses him, desperate and brutal. Mycroft melts into the kiss, then remembers that he can’t afford to be distracted again. But his hands are fisted in Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock’s tongue is gliding against his, and the lump in his throat is gone, the horrible black sorrow seeping out of his pores. Sherlock’s warmth fills the hole in his chest, and everything feels so dizzyingly _right_ after so much _wrong_ that he can’t tear himself away.

Long fingers play with his hair as Sherlock peppers kisses on his cheek, his neck, his mouth, the tip of his nose.

“I can’t believe you,” Sherlock mutters against his neck.

“W… What?” Mycroft arches his neck, practically begging for more, instead of pushing Sherlock away and keeping him safe. Fool, he thinks, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock sighs and moves to sit up next to Mycroft. “Seriously, Mycroft, and you’re the smart one? You can’t keep me safe by pushing me away, for heaven’s sake. Didn’t the last two months show you what an unstoppable force we are together?”

“Precisely my point. I wasn’t… We hadn’t…”

“You sincerely believe it’s because we hadn’t touched yet?” Sherlock’s eyes are wide in genuine disbelief.

Mycroft closes his eyes. “It took me almost an entire day to even _think_ about reading the reports on my desk. I haven’t even read the rest, and one of them is decidedly out of place in-”

“Let’s see it, then.”

“I… Sherlock, I don’t even know where my briefcase is. Don’t you see? I have never been this careless, but when I got here I was…” He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose wearily.

“You were distraught, as you well should be, thanks to what you did to us.”

Mycroft finds himself pulled into Sherlock’s embrace. He inhales his brother’s scent in shallow, shaky breaths, blessed relief rushing through him.

“Lie down,” Sherlock says softly, pushing him back slowly.

“Let me find my briefcase and-”

“Just a few more minutes,” Sherlock whispers. “Then we’ll look at all the reports in your house.”

Long fingers start unbuttoning his shirt, and Mycroft goes from half-hard to shockingly erect. Sherlock’s breath hitches and his hands work faster on the rest of Mycroft’s clothes. Mycroft finds himself naked and painfully aroused in a flash, before Sherlock climbs out of bed and sheds his clothes frantically. Mycroft’s mouth goes dry.

Sherlock straddles him gracefully, leans down to kiss him. “What do you want?” Sherlock asks against his lips, hot erection rubbing Mycroft’s thigh. “Tell me.”

He wants… He wants Sherlock as close as possible, closer than his brain, his skin, his heartbeats, the blood flowing through his veins. He wants…“Inside me.”

The smouldering look in Sherlock’s eyes takes his breath away. Sherlock claims his mouth in a scorching kiss, then trails hot kisses along his jaw. A hot tongue licks Mycroft’s ear, and his toes curl in pleasure. “Get on your hands and knees,” Sherlock whispers softly.

“I… I want to see you.”

“You will,” Sherlock says silkily into his ear. “Hands and knees.”

Mycroft complies, wondering.

Sherlock kneels behind him, hands running down his sides. Sherlock’s tongue on the nape of Mycroft’s neck makes his head fall forward helplessly, his eyes fluttering shut. Languid, open-mouthed kisses are pressed down his shoulder blades, his back. Sherlock’s tenderness suffuses the air around them, weaving around him in warm coils. Sherlock’s hands move soothingly up and down his thighs as he presses a long kiss on the base of Mycroft’s spine and rests his forehead there.

“I love you,” Sherlock says softly into his skin.

Mycroft’s eyes fly open. Something inside him shatters exquisitely.

He opens his mouth to say it, but he can’t find his voice at the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue at the top of his arse. He gasps as his brother nuzzles and licks hotly down between his cheeks. Mycroft’s pulse skitters madly at the direction Sherlock is taking.

His fingers fist into the sheets as he gasps at the sensation of Sherlock’s hot, wet tongue ghosting near his entrance. _Licking_ at his entrance. _Oh my god._

Long fingers curl around his straining cock as Sherlock’s tongue delves inside him.

“Sherlock,” he whimpers, rubbing his face into his forearm.

Sherlock’s thumb drags on his slit, swirls in the precome pooling there. He starts stroking Mycroft teasingly slowly as his tongue delves in deeper. Sherlock licks faster, harder. He moans, his deep timbre reverberating inside Mycroft, spreading like fire through his body.

The world tilts.

Mycroft’s awareness shrinks to Sherlock’s tongue fucking him, Sherlock’s fingers stroking him agonisingly slowly, his other hand squeezing one buttock to spread Mycroft open and delve deeper.

Mycroft is underwater. He can barely breathe, he’s drowning in pleasure. _I love you._ He tries to say it, but his tongue is too thick. His ears are roaring and his skin is on fire. A loose thought swims slowly inside his head that once upon a time he knew how to form words, and he’d like to do so again, to spill his feelings to the only love of his life, but the thought is lost in the need to push back for more of Sherlock’s hot tongue.

His body is trembling with the effort to stay on his hands and knees. Pleasure builds up inside him, sweeps him closer to the blessed edge. Sherlock strokes his cock brilliantly and fucks him with his tongue and moans into his arse, and Mycroft teeters on the edge. _I love you._ His heart swells with words he has saved and treasured all his life for his only brother. He swallows back a sob as the explosive orgasm gathers closer…

Sherlock’s tongue retreats, wrenching a keening from Mycroft’s mouth. Slender fingers grip the base of Mycroft’s cock forcefully. Mycroft chokes on the need, the love, whimpers into the sheets.

Sherlock’s stubble drags across his lower back. Heaven. Torture. _Both._ Sherlock’s hands move soothingly on Mycroft’s back, hips, thighs.

“I’m so in love with you,” Sherlock says brokenly into the base of his spine.

He reaches out blindly. Sherlock’s fingers tangle with his. He finds himself gently turned and laid down on his back. He is quivering with need, love for this other half of his soul, this one of a kind human being who is _his,_ Mycroft’s, who read him like an open book and forgave him for failing and came after him.

The tenderness in Sherlock’s eyes is overwhelming. Mycroft pulls him into a kiss. “I love you,” he whispers into his little brother’s mouth. Mycroft loses himself in the kiss, Sherlock’s silky, hot length rubbing against him. Dimly he registers the sound of a drawer open and shut. Sherlock kisses Mycroft’s jaw, the side of his neck. Mycroft’s arm is pushed up towards the pillow as Sherlock presses kisses on the soft skin inside his arm, licks his armpit, swirls his tongue around a nipple and sucks on it. Sherlock moves sinuously down his body, licking into Mycroft’s navel, pressing kisses on his belly. Sherlock nuzzles the inside of his thigh as Mycroft’s legs are pushed wider gently by slender, capable hands, hands Mycroft held the day their precious owner was born, hands he has cradled, held, protected, soothed over the years, hands he fiercely loves, his brother’s hands, his lover’s hands.

A long, slippery finger pushes inside. Mycroft gasps in scorching pleasure, head falling back on the pillow as Sherlock’s tongue laves his balls, rocks them back and forth. Another finger pushes inside him, then another, as one of his balls then the other is suckled lazily. Mycroft’s fingers fist in the sheets, writhing in searing pleasure at the sensation of Sherlock on him, inside him, around him.

His balls slip out of Sherlock’s mouth before his cock is engulfed in wet heat. Sherlock’s fingers brush _that_ spot inside him, and Mycroft’s back arches off the bed as he thrusts helplessly into his brother’s mouth. Mycroft gasps as Sherlock’s fingers brush that spot, again and again, as he sucks on Mycroft’s cock, swallows around it, moans. Mycroft is going to lose his mind. He is delirious with pleasure, about to spill into Sherlock’s clever mouth, when Sherlock’s hand again wraps tightly around the base of his cock as he withdraws his fingers and lets Mycroft’s erect cock slip out of his mouth.

Mycroft moans, bereft, shaking with need. He would beg if could talk. Sherlock shushes him again and lines up his cock at Mycroft’s hole. _Oh._ He should have known his brother would never leave him on the edge. Sherlock will take him apart and put him back and see him through it and hold him afterwards, he realises, as Sherlock breaches him slowly, thrusting inside bit by bit, the friction pure, bone-melting bliss.

Mycroft opens his eyes to the vision of his brother above him, curls falling into intelligent eyes trained on Mycroft, lips parted in pleasure, his perfect body quivering with restraint as he thrusts carefully into Mycroft.

“I love you,” Mycroft mouths, unable to find his voice. Intense tenderness colours Sherlock’s eyes, darkened with lust. Sherlock thrusts against _that_ spot again, and Mycroft pulls him into a kiss, pants against his mouth as his vision swims.

Sherlock’s thrusts become increasingly frantic. Sherlock’s hand strokes Mycroft’s cock feverishly as he brushes that sweet spot again and again, dragging Mycroft to the edge.

“You… Mycroft, I love you,” Sherlock gasps. Mycroft shatters.

Sherlock continues thrusting as Mycroft spills, floating taut and burning with white hot pleasure. Sherlock’s balls seize up against his hole. Mycroft stops breathing at the sensation of Sherlock’s cock pulsing inside him, against his walls, filling Mycroft with his release.

Sherlock’s head falls into the curve of his neck as he empties himself in Mycroft. Mycroft shakes beneath him as pleasure wracks his body. He raises sluggish arms and wraps them weakly around Sherlock’s back. As Sherlock’s thrusts slow down, he mouths Mycroft’s ear and pants shakily, “I love you,” over and over and over.

 _I love you._ He can’t get his mouth to work, he can only pant against his brother’s slender shoulder.

Sherlock doesn’t get off Mycroft, and the sensation of aftershocks coursing through Mycroft is intensified tenfold with every delicious shiver of his brother’s body on top of him, moulded against his body. Sherlock holds him, etches words of love into Mycroft’s skin with kisses and gasped sobs, and the hot film coating Mycroft’s eyes breaks. His cheeks are wet, and his arms tighten around his precious brother.

“Don’t push me away again, ever. Promise me, Mycroft.”

“I promise.”

*** *** ***

Sherlock’s mobile flashes silently for the umpteenth time where it lies on the floor next to his ruined suit, but Mycroft is reluctant to untangle himself from the precious warmth he’s spooned around.

“Look at that,” Sherlock murmurs. “You actually _slept_ in that suit. That wasn’t proof enough that you made the wrong decision?”

Mycroft smiles into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, silken curls tickling his nose. “Your phone.”

“I know it’s ringing,” Sherlock murmurs. “I _told_ John I was coming here but he still needs to mother-hen me.”

Mycroft’s arm tightens around his brother’s waist silently. Sherlock intertwines their hands.

“Yes, you don’t like to hear me mention him. Yet you all but throw me in his lap earlier,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft sighs.

Sherlock turns in his arms, drapes an arm around Mycroft’s torso, tangles their legs.

“I’m going to have to call him eventually, you know. Perhaps I ought to invite him over. I bet you were even planning to call him and ask… Ha, _tell_ him to make sure I don’t do anything foolish.”

“I’m _sorry_ -”

“I mean, if you still think you’re right and he’s going to keep an eye on me-”

“All right, fine, I was-”

“Let me get my phone. Would you like to play operation, John?-”

“Yes, I was _wrong._ Now stop it,” Mycroft says, attempting a glare.

“-but, John, if I lose because I didn’t focus – my brother is too damned sexy I can’t focus, you see-”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Sherlock-”

“I will pack my bags and banish myself to a faraway land because I _have_ to focus, and people call _me_ a drama queen, and-”

“You asked for it,” Mycroft growls, flipping them over. Sherlock squeals as Mycroft tickles him everywhere. His laughter washes over Mycroft, warm and precious and reassuring.

Yes, he was an idiot.

*** *** ***

Mycroft extracts the manila envelope first from the stack they’ve placed on the dining table. Sherlock, showered and fresh (and positively edible) in Mycroft’s dressing gown, squints at the handwriting on it. And grins.

“Let’s see what Irene’s sent you, then.”

“Irene Adler?” Mycroft says, astonished.

“I know that handwriting very well. She spent all our trip back from Karachi doodling naughty Super Woman comics on tissue paper.”

Mycroft only marginally resents the bemused smile on Sherlock’s lips, possibly because his mind is whirring. “She’s started blackmailing us already, I suppose,” he mutters, opening the envelope.

They fish out a pile of photographs, a stack of papers, and a folded note. Sherlock frowns, sorting through the photographs.

The photographs show a white-haired man in a wheelchair. His face is covered in wrinkles and he is glaring at the camera. He appears to be in a nursing home. Irene Adler herself is in one of the pictures, standing regally next to the man, who is sitting in a wheelchair and has an arm draped loosely around her waist.

The papers are photocopies of two different IDs. The same man’s picture is on both documents. One of them bears a name that doesn’t ring any bells. The other name is… “Good heavens,” Mycroft breathes.

Chance Emmerich. The English counterfeit ring leader and polygamist who escaped and is still very much wanted. There would be no telling how much power Mycroft would gain if he used this information. He wouldn’t become Her Majesty’s most lauded servant. He would become Her Majesty’s… best friend.

Sherlock unfolds the note and holds it between them.

_Dear Mr Holmes:_

_I thought I’d send you this before you have me dissolved in acid or otherwise… eliminated (isn’t that the correct term?) or tortured, and I’m rather fond of my limbs._

_This is my father. I know what he’s done. I love him. He is – to use your language – my single pressure point in this entire world. Well, in addition to myself, of course._

_If this comes to light, it will end him. I have ensured the… permanent silence of everyone aware of his new identity and current location a long time ago. I’m the only one on the planet who knows about his true identity. And now you._

_I hope this is sufficient leverage to ensure my loyalty. I know you wouldn’t hesitate to use this to further your career… perhaps bring a criminal to justice or some such romantic rot. I know you won’t, however, because Sherlock will save me yet again._

_I’m a little disappointed in you, Mr Holmes. I’m inclined to cut you some slack because it’s all very new (you know what I mean). But if you tried to think with your brain and not… well, you know, you’d realise you already have my loyalty. Sherlock is not one of my pressure points, I admit, but I owe him my life. And I have a little, perfectly harmless crush on him. I would never dream of hurting him. One day you might even believe this._

_Yours,_

_Irene Adler_

“Not bad,” Sherlock says, smiling.

Mycroft looks at the photos for a long moment. Sherlock folds the note around the photographs and IDs and returns everything to the envelope.

They watch each other for a moment.

“She’s hopeless,” Sherlock says quietly. “She doesn’t have the training or the aptitude for this, and yet she loves to think of herself as a female James Bond.”

Mycroft huffs. “I should go ahead and use these against her, just to teach her a lesson.” Jealousy flares inside him at the obvious protectiveness in his brother’s eyes. “You don’t want me to.”

“I don’t think it would do any good. He’s too old to even remember his crimes. He turned the money he escaped with into gold, and he became a philanthropist, if I remember correctly. I think he gave back ten times the money he stole. I can’t believe he’s Irene’s father.”

“Sherlock, do you know how much farther I would get in my career with something like this?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “But you’re going to get there anyway. You’re too smart to rely on random stuff that falls into your lap.”

“Being smart is all about using every bit of “stuff” that falls into my lap.” Mycroft looks at the envelope. “Incidentally, do you have any idea what would happen to me if anyone finds out I knew about this and did nothing?”

“Why do you think she sent this? She knows you can either get rid of it or use it, and she knows you’re not going to use it.” Sherlock grins. “Apart from the elegance of it, it can also be part of your punishment for what you put us through earlier.”

Mycroft rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.” Something suddenly occurs to him. “If I make it up to you, will you let me use this?”

“No. How are you going to make it up to me?”

“I wanted to… whisk you away for a few days.”

Sherlock sits up. “Just the two of us? Where? I know all the zero surveillance areas in several European cities, by the way.”

“Er… Originally I was going to avoid surveillance. But in light of recent developments...” Mycroft trails off apologetically. He can practically see the visions of a holiday as a tourist couple flash in Sherlock’s brilliant mind. He can’t help the pang of longing that shoots through him at the dazzling impossibility.

“Sodding psychopaths and their sodding timing,” Sherlock sighs, getting up and pushing Mycroft’s chair back away from the table. The distinctly masculine strength sends a thrill up Mycroft’s spine. “Sometimes I miss Moriarty.”

Mycroft finds himself pulled up to stand flush against his brother. He decides to ignore the non-sequitur, nuzzling his brother’s neck, revelling in his scent. “Er… Mummy and Daddy have to come too. I may have made it sound like a lifeline thing to the Prime Minister.”

“So… Mummy and Daddy are going to be… our beards?”

Mycroft is scandalised on behalf of his parents. Sherlock presses a quick kiss to his mouth, grinning.

“It’s filthy. I love it,” Sherlock says, shaking with laughter. “I want to watch you making that call to Mummy.”

Mycroft’s mobile rings. Sherlock peers at the display.

“It’s John. He’s calling _you_ now,” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow. “Are you going to invite him over?”

Mycroft scowls. Sherlock throws his head back and dissolves into laughter.

*** *** ***


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate cliffhangers, so I was racing to finish the last two chapters early to post both. It proved impossible and turned out to be a really stupid idea, when the answer was simply to avoid the cliffhanger altogether and push it to the next chapter. 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to all of you wonderful people for your patience with a WiP that is updated with such infuriating irregularity. 
> 
> Unbetaed and unedited, so my apologies for all the mistakes. I can't apologize for the possible glaring OOCness, because they're acting this way in my head. I can apologize for how weird my head is, however -- it's all I do in real life all the time. :)

The moment they step into the hotel lobby in Los Cabos they are accosted by a tray of bright welcome drinks. The smiling concierge whisks them to the nearest pair of opposite oversized wicker sofas. Four massage therapists hover politely nearby in crisp white uniforms.

The compulsively good service can only mean surveillance is in place, Sherlock mutters, reading Mycroft’s mind. The staff is not catering to Mycroft Holmes the top-ranking British diplomat but Mycroft Holmes the British government. Mycroft agrees; beneath the staff’s detached smiles lurks terror of any misstep causing a diplomatic disaster.

Mycroft doesn’t mind one whit. Let the staff spend a few days trembling in terror if it means his precious brother will be well-protected, he decides.

The sun is about to dip into the ocean, staining the open-air reception a hazy golden. Something tightens in his chest as the light moves sleepily, swathing Sherlock in gold, from the top of his messy dark head to his slender toes peeking out of the denim flip flops Sherlock had insisted on changing into on the plane.

Mycroft doesn’t want the frothy drink or the obligatory massage. Every cell in his body is _tingling_ with need after ten long hours in first class. He couldn’t even brush Sherlock’s hand on any pretext on the plane thanks to the tastefully spread out, spacious seats. Then Sherlock had to recline his seat completely, face buried in one of the books he had brought along, only his unruly curls peeking out, framing the book, endearing and reminiscent of the little boy who loved to read on Mycroft’s bed every night. The sight of Sherlock’s untucked white cotton shirt riding up, revealing bare, pale skin, his long legs in skinny blue jeans sprawled in unconscious grace, however… had forcefully brought to Mycroft’s mind quite different, much more recent memories. He is aching to drag his gorgeous brother behind closed doors and press him into the mattress until they both see stars.

Mummy and Daddy settle warily on one sofa, testing its firmness. Sherlock flops dramatically on the other sofa. He doesn’t end up swallowed in the undignified way that sometimes happens with these oversized sofas. Sherlock is of course whippet thin, but now Mycroft intimately knows Sherlock’s delicious weight on top of him in bed, and his body has memorised all the lean muscle hidden underneath that wiry frame. If this sofa had been a swallower, Sherlock would have definitely sunk down, Mycroft decides, and sits down next to Sherlock.

“Can’t help feeling it’s a little unusual,” Mummy says, sipping her drink. “The massage therapists, I mean. Just standing by waiting for us to finish our drinks. Bit insulting. Poor time management, at the very least.”

Sherlock snorts and shifts, his thigh brushing Mycroft’s. “Apparently diplomatic concerns trump time management.”

The crashing of the waves combined with the light music throughout the lobby are loud enough to keep Mycroft’s voice from reaching their parents on the opposite sofa if he speaks low enough. One of the therapists (a very attractive blond, Mycroft grudgingly admits) is still darting appreciative glances at Sherlock. “Perhaps they like to _claim_ their clients. Someone certainly looks very eager to help you relax.”

“We could skip the massage altogether, if you like,” Sherlock says, baritone dipping under Mycroft’s skin.

He would more than _like_. “It’s unheard of. Especially with guests who-”

“Especially you, you mean.”

Mycroft shouldn’t find a pout _adorable_ on anyone, least of all a grown man in his thirties. He sighs. “The manager himself would be knocking on our room within a few minutes in a panic demanding to know what offended us. Not a pretty sight.”

Mummy takes pity on the four therapists waiting nearby. “Oh, I do hate leaving them standing like this. Boys, stop deducing everyone in sight. Let’s go. Why are you scowling, Sherlock?”

“Free massages. International diplomacy. One and the same, it would seem. Never _mind,_ ” Sherlock says impatiently, shrugging off further questions as they all get up and traipse after the massage team down a cobblestone path to the massage tents dotting a section of the waterfront.

The warm Mexican breeze tousles Sherlock’s curls before he disappears into his tent. Mycroft inwardly curses the more ridiculous aspects of diplomacy, stepping into the adjacent tent.

Even his parents had found it ridiculous. A surprise trip _and_ a British government summons in one, his mother had said wryly. He secures a sheet over his lower half and lies on his stomach.

He can’t blame her. Sending a private jet to ferry his parents back to London a few hours after they had arrived by train _from_ London – ridiculous is an understatement. As are criminal masterminds specifically after Sherlock, as his mother had added ruefully, her lips curving in one of Mycroft’s patented falsely amused smiles. A master at sectioning off inconvenient emotion, his mother.

His muscles are probably benefiting from the expert massage he’s currently receiving, but Mycroft’s thoughts keep straying to the adjoining suites Anthea has booked. He tunes out the annoying twinge of guilt over the unnecessary expense. It would have been cheaper to get one room for him and Sherlock – it would have been cheaper still if they could go on this trip alone. But society won’t have it, so society can drown itself collectively for all he cares, he thinks, with a furious defiance he rarely allows himself.

They still have to be quiet, however. It’s an exclusive resort but their two-bedroom suite is still adjacent to their parents’ single-bedroom one. And there are the surveillance cameras Anthea has informed him are installed in the living room.

But they have proven quite adept at being quiet. In fact they have been doomed to be quiet the two nights ( _just two,_ he thinks incredulously – a whirlwind of emotions in only two days with his very own breathtaking, beautiful whirlwind brother) they have spent together so far. He recalls Sherlock’s body moving against his last night, their parents once again asleep in the guest room down the corridor, and the toe-curling kiss Sherlock had pulled him into afterwards, his slender limbs wrapped around Mycroft, warm and reassuring and sticky under the sheets.

 _Oh._ Mycroft tries to distract himself by deciding on a gift for Anthea. She has truly outdone herself, arranging a three-night trip under heavy surveillance to a very exclusive resort in a mere few hours. Sending a private jet to ferry his parents back to his house. But private jet or no, his parents must be knackered. A short nap won’t make their jet lag much worse, he thinks guiltily. A very short nap, because he doesn’t think he can take it if he has to wait four or five more hours until they all go to bed before he can touch Sherlock.

Then he thinks of Sherlock’s mouth on his, and forgets about guilt altogether.

*** *** ***

There’s only the four of them in the lift, which is naturally (frustratingly) too spacious to allow for any proximity. Their parents seem drowsy and relaxed after the massage and Mummy does indeed suggest a nap before dinner.

“It’s our trip home that will be bad, you know. I can hardly feel any jet lag here.”

Sherlock hums in agreement as he shifts closer and picks an invisible thread from Mycroft’s rolled-up sleeve. His fingertips ghost against Mycroft’s forearm. His stomach heats.

Mycroft clears his throat. “By the way, I’m afraid I couldn’t wriggle out of surveillance in the living rooms, but the bedrooms are camera free.”

“Please tell me the ensuites are clean too,” Sherlock says.

“You know they are. My team does have a vague sense of propriety.”

“I might be tempted to remove the living room cameras if you let me get too bored though,” Sherlock says, grinning.

Mummy tsks. Mycroft raises an eyebrow, bemused. “Yes, thank you for the heads up. You won’t get bored.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise.”

 _Flirting._ Sherlock’s flirting with him right under their parents’ noses. Sherlock watches the floor numbers flash, a small, embarrassed smile playing on his lips, as if he has just discovered how strange he’s behaving.

Mycroft fits his bemused mask around the jumble of giddy affection and need roiling inside him and waits impatiently for the lift to reach the 11th floor.

*** *** ***

As soon as Sherlock opens the connecting door on his side, Mycroft wraps his hand around Sherlock’s slender waist and pulls him into a kiss. Sherlock melts against him and it’s not nearly close enough. Mycroft wants to crawl under Sherlock’s skin, he wants to _devour_ him. Oh God. Ten hours on a plane – what was he thinking?

Mycroft can’t pull Sherlock’s clothes off fast enough. Sherlock whimpers softly when Mycroft curls his fingers around his erection, already _leaking_. “I’ll come -- I’ll come right now.”

“No, wait – in my mouth,” Mycroft gasps into Sherlock’s mouth. He blindly pushes Sherlock to lie on the bed, his vision swimming at the sight of his brother draped horizontally on the bed, wanton and rock hard, eager hands pushing Mycroft’s head downwards. Mycroft sinks to the floor and nuzzles Sherlock’s cock, letting Sherlock’s musk fill his senses, his hands mapping out Sherlock’s chest and sides and hips.

Finally, _finally_ he’s between Sherlock’s thighs, no rules or people between them.

“I love you,” he says into the soft inside of Sherlock’s thigh.

He only gets in three hard sucks before Sherlock is spurting hotly inside his mouth. Mycroft swallows it all, licking Sherlock clean after his cock stops pulsing against Mycroft’s tongue. He lets Sherlock slip out of his mouth regretfully and kisses his way slowly up Sherlock’s body. Mycroft’s brain fogs at the sight of Sherlock's head and upper chest dangling off the low bed, his curls and hands dragging on the plush carpet. Sherlock’s perfect body is still twitching with aftershocks as soft, uneven breaths fall out of his lovely mouth.

Mycroft hauls Sherlock up on the bed, presses an open-mouthed kiss on Sherlock’s mouth before opening his own trousers frantically and closing his fingers around himself. He groans, and in a flash he is flipped over and lying on his back. Sherlock tugs Mycroft’s trousers and pants off before slapping Mycroft’s hand away and curling his slender fingers around Mycroft’s cock, stroking him and kissing Mycroft's mouth feverishly before moving downward to engulf Mycroft’s cock in wet heat.

Mycroft’s fingers fist in the sheets as Sherlock starts sucking hard and fast, swallowing around his cock, humming. One slender hand fondles Mycroft’s balls while the other prises his fingers off the sheet to place them in Sherlock’s curls.

Teeth. Sherlock’s teeth lightly graze his cock. Mycroft gasps as the dizzying orgasm rushes through him and he hangs suspended in white hot pleasure, spilling and spilling into Sherlock’s clever mouth.

His body is still thrumming exquisitely with the afterglow as he brushes Sherlock’s sweaty fringe off his forehead, dragging his fingers through the silky curls. Sherlock crawls up Mycroft’s body, their mouths and bodies fitting perfectly together.

When Mycroft arranges them back against the pillows (vertically this time), Sherlock burrows his nose into the hollow underneath Mycroft's armpit and sighs. Mycroft rubs his fingers up and down Sherlock’s silky back, trailing the other hand along the arm Sherlock has draped over his chest. There’s no danger of catching a cold with the warm breeze filling the room, so he forgoes a sheet in favour of admiring the lovely line of Sherlock’s smooth butt and the leg Sherlock has thrown over Mycroft’s.

“We can’t fall asleep.” He’s lost track of time but he can guess they don’t have enough time left for a nap before dinner.

Sherlock mumbles into his armpit.

He’s going to wake Sherlock, he tells himself. Absolutely. In a minute or two. Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed as he revels in the sensation of Sherlock’s chest rising and falling against his.

It’s the most powerful soporific in the world, he finds. Which is why he’s definitely going to shake his gorgeous brother awake. In a minute or two.

*** *** ***

He is shaken awake by an armful of Sherlock, damp curls fragrant with shampoo and warm from the shower. Mummy has apparently been trying both their mobiles when they failed to open the door. He isn’t fully awake when he hurries to the shower and nearly trips over his feet as Sherlock steps out of his bathrobe and bends to open his suitcase.

When he steps out of the shower, Sherlock is standing in front of the full-length mirror, tousled mop bent down as he fiddles with a fitted blue button down over… a _very_ skinny pair of grey chinos. Heat stirs low in Mycroft’s stomach.

Deck shoes. No one should look so… _edible_ in deck shoes, Mycroft thinks helplessly, and wonders if there will ever be a time when the sight of Sherlock doesn’t steal his breath away.

Sherlock raises his head. Their gazes lock in the mirror. “Don’t make any plans after dinner,” Sherlock says in a warning voice.

He finds himself moving to stand behind Sherlock, resting his hands on his brother’s slim hips. “Plans?”

“I know you,” Sherlock tells Mycroft’s reflection. “You always give in too easily to Mummy’s suggestions. No strolls or drinks.”

Mycroft nuzzles the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s clean scent fills his nostrils. He looks back at their reflections. “I won’t, then. You’re going to turn a lot of heads tonight. As usual.”

Sherlock holds his gaze in the mirror, solemn and pale and beautiful. “As long as I’m the only one who turns yours.”

Mycroft’s heart feels painfully, exquisitely full. Sherlock’s back is warm against Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft swallows the urge to press his brother to his chest, imprison him inside, forever close and safe. He presses a kiss to the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock studies his reflection. “You’re worried. Why are you worried?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot the reason behind the timing of this trip.”

Sherlock turns his head sideways towards Mycroft, bringing his face mesmerisingly close. “Your men are tailing us around the clock.”

“They’ve been outsmarted before,” Mycroft says. He sighs heavily. “You need a bloody guardian angel, Sherlock.”

“Lucky me then,” Sherlock says softly. “I have one. It’s actually how you looked the last time I saw you.”

Mycroft tears his eyes from the nearly translucent freckles dusting Sherlock’s graceful nose. “What?”

“You,” Sherlock says softly, his words soft puffs of breath mingling with Mycroft’s. “In my mind palace. It’s always you. Whenever I’m stumped. You always nudge me in the right direction. You had wings the last time. Angel wings.” Sherlock smiles. “Possibly it was the chair behind you.”

Lost for words, Mycroft leans in, hypnotized. Time stops still as Sherlock’s lips part for him. Mycroft’s fingers tighten on Sherlock’s hips, pulling his brother’s back closer against his chest.

It’s a different kind of need, Mycroft discovers. Molasses-thick, unhurried, absolute. Sherlock’s head falls back on Mycroft’s shoulder as the kiss deepens, Sherlock’s intoxicating scent fogging his brain.

He only registers the knocks on the suite door when Sherlock tears his mouth away. "Mycroft's taking forever, Mummy -- give him five more minutes."

"Why does it always have to be me?"

“Because it _is_ you. Some beards you found us,” Sherlock mutters, his lopsided grin playful, his clever eyes serious. Mycroft’s heart feels about to burst.

*** *** ***

The dimly lit Sea Grill is perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean, and it feels like they’re having dinner amidst the clouds from the view through the window behind Sherlock. The dark water glitters and sparkles silver under the moonlight, the perfect backdrop for his brother.

Sherlock doesn’t stop his deductions of the waiters and their fellow patrons, but his usual snark lacks the venom that has laced it the past few years. Sherlock’s happy, Mycroft realises, and so is Mycroft himself – at least as happy as he has ever been with a threat against Sherlock nagging in the back of his mind. The hidden lights within the tables and the delicate pendants swaying overhead, dividing the tables, throw Sherlock’s face into a stunning mixture of shadows and soft light. Something clenches exquisitely in Mycroft’s chest and he pushes back his unfinished _tres leches_ flan.

Their parents don’t try too hard to coax them into accompanying them on their walk. “We ought to turn in early too,” Mummy says, “but a short stroll will actually help us sleep.”

A knee brushes Mycroft’s under the table in warning. As if he would choose a walk instead of Sherlock. “Perhaps I’ll join you tomorrow. Tonight I’d like to sleep as long as I can, for once.”

Mycroft watches them walk away, relief making room for the heat snaking under his skin. He has no plans to waste one second on sleep.

“You haven’t finished your dessert,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft looks at him. “I don’t want dessert.”

Sherlock smiles impishly before intertwining their fingers under the table. He tightens his fingers around Mycroft’s when Mycroft tries to pull their hands apart.

“No surveillance can reach this table. Look at the angle and the plants around us. Impossible,” Sherlock whispers, dragging their tangled hands and placing them on his upper thigh. Mycroft’s glance falls on the line of Sherlock’s erect cock, fully visible against the thin material of his chinos. Mycroft’s mouth goes dry. He swells rapidly in his pants.

He drags his eyes back to stare unseeing at the remains of flan in front of him as his fingers helplessly mould themselves around Sherlock. The roaring in his ears drowns out the crashing of the waves. He swallows.

“Can you walk?” Mycroft’s voice sounds gruff.

Sherlock leans forward, spreading his legs, effectively pushing into Mycroft’s fist. “If you stop cupping my cock,” Sherlock says breathlessly, his voice grazing Mycroft’s nerve ends and leaving them on fire, “and looking at me like that.”

“Get up,” Mycroft says thickly. He takes a deep breath and tears his fingers away.

The soft lights and shadows dance exquisitely across Sherlock’s cheekbones. He holds Mycroft’s gaze as he adjusts himself discreetly before unfolding fluidly from the chair.

They make their way down the gravel pathway, the only strip of land to and from the Sea Grill. The pathway opens onto a vast outdoor space. It had been empty before dinner but now two huge mirrored balls hang spinning from poles -- obviously a dance floor. Anyone watching them will find the crush of writhing bodies a ready explanation for his proximity to Sherlock, Mycroft realises. He even dares to pretend to steady himself on the small of Sherlock’s back once or twice, relishing the intimate touch.

They cut through the growing throngs of dancers, Sherlock’s curls splashed purple and pink and blue by the rotating lights. There is no shortage of inviting glances thrown at Sherlock. Mycroft relishes the disappointed glances that follow when the admirers see his hand on Sherlock’s back. The knowledge that they assume he is Sherlock’s lover (no longer an assumption, he reminds himself in giddy wonder) is _intoxicating._

A couple crashes into him, separating him from Sherlock. Mycroft ignores their apologies icily and pushes through the crowd to find Sherlock.

Sherlock is a few steps ahead of him. They spot each other and Sherlock gestures to him to hurry up. Something nightmarish with no melody starts pounding loudly, and Mycroft cringes in distaste. The crowd of bodies is growing, nearly spilling from the dance floor, and the changing lights keep shielding Sherlock from view.

Suddenly the light falls on the huge mirrored doors of the building, drenching the air in harsh silver and hiding Sherlock behind a blinding flare of white.

They’re almost at the end of the floor. Mycroft squints, anxious to see Sherlock. The spots dancing in front of his eyes fade gradually as the lights continue rotating. Finally he spots technicolour flashes of Sherlock…

… who is standing very still, his head angled toward a shorter form stepping out of the trees lining the dance floor. A man, thin, dressed casually in very fitted clothes. He is silhouetted against the garish colours, completely in the shadows…

_No. No, no._

… it doesn’t matter, because Mycroft needs no light to tell who that is.

The light shimmers again and sweeps over him, leaving him clearly visible.

James Moriarty.

Mycroft is _freezing._ Burning. He can’t breathe. He’s moving before he realises it, and yet he’s walking underwater.

Moriarty is smiling lazily at Sherlock. “Look at you,” he breathes, voice dripping with lust, and Mycroft bares his teeth. Moriarty raises a hand as if to touch Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock flinches, stepping back.

“Stay away from me, you… lunatic.” Sherlock is trying to get over the shock – if only for the next few moments – and Mycroft is proud of him. He steps a little closer and their arms touch (because _now_ it’s all right; now it’s bound to look normal to the idiots working for him, who couldn’t even spot James bloody _Moriarty_ ).

“And here I thought you couldn’t possibly look lovelier than you did on the roof,” Moriarty says, unabashedly _ogling_ Sherlock. Mycroft’s stomach turns, because he knows it’s not an act. “What, didn’t you miss me at all?”

“Who do you have snipers on now?” Sherlock asks coolly.

Moriarty has the audacity to pout. “Snipers? There are no snipers.”

“Back to bombers then?”

“I have nothing trained on anyone. Well, anyone _you_ care about, darling.” Moriarty smirks. “Surely you realise that all your pathetic efforts since we “died” has barely scratched the surface of my network.” Moriarty tsks.

“I told you once that I hate riddles. Either say what you want to-”

Moriarty’s fingers close around Sherlock’s wrist, pulling Sherlock minutely close. Every cell in Mycroft’s body is _screaming_ at him to wrench that filthy hand off his brother. He can’t, he admits to himself bitterly: They haven’t caught anyone’s attention yet, and Mycroft is no fool to think this could devolve into an anonymous brawl, not that those will be tolerated at a place like this. If they cause a scene, they will be tomorrow’s front news around the world. Mycroft won’t allow anyone to put Sherlock under _that_ kind of attention again.

Moriarty’s eyes fall on Sherlock’s lips. He licks his own. “And I told you to learn to like riddles. They’re going to be a big part of your life once I’ve tied the few remaining loose ends. You’re going to be my ordinary live-in. Or my pet. Whichever you prefer.” Moriarty adds, his voice dropping to a purr at odds with the manic light in his eyes. “I’m going to have you. Oh, Sherlock, how I’m going to have you. I might even let you have me too.”

Mycroft snarls.

Moriarty rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Mr Holmes, I’m disappointed in your sense of decorum. I’m about to tell your baby brother exactly how I plan to make up for these past few years. Surely you don’t need to stay here for this.”

Mycroft doesn’t trust himself to speak. He can’t reveal his new connection to Sherlock. It would be a dream come true to Moriarty. He would truly _own_ Sherlock then.

Sherlock tries to tug his hand back. “You’re being crass _and_ dull, Jim. We’re under too much surveillance for you to try any-”

“Oh, Sherlock, you never listen. I’m hardly going to try anything now. Didn’t I just say I had loose ends to take care of? Don’t worry,” Moriarty says, pulling Sherlock’s hand to his lips and actually planting a kiss on Sherlock’s palm before letting it fall free. “I’ll train you out of this bad habit. I even have your collar and leash ready. Encrusted with aquamarine, to show off those beautiful eyes, what do you think?”

“You’re crazy.”

“I really have it bad, you know,” Moriarty says conversationally. “Look at you, repeating yourself and being disgustingly ordinary and yet I find it endearing.” He lets his eyes flutter shut, takes a deep breath before fixing his gaze on Sherlock again. “I’ve missed you so much, sexy. I kept searching the papers for a snapshot of you. Lying on the ground, crumpled and bloody and beautiful, my broken angel. Nothing. Not one picture. Except for the one in the silly hat.” Moriarty shudders. “I know, you hate it. I’ll let you play with the idiots responsible for it for as long as you like. Ah, too bad, I really must leave now.”

Mycroft steps forward. “You expect us to believe you’re just going to… leave, like that? After you made my brother jump off a building? Surely you realise the scale of surveillance active when I bring my family here?”

“You’re still here? Jesus.” Moriarty sighs, then looks at Sherlock in a mockery of sheepishness. “About that roof debacle… I was wrong. I want you alive. I’m glad you’re alive. I will kill you eventually, yes, but it will be slow and sexy and lovely, just the two of us…” He trails off. “I dream about it sometimes. Making love to you while you bleed to death. Oh, Sherlock. Finally. Life has been so abysmally dull without you.”

He turns around and prepares to step back behind the trees. Mycroft can make out three bodyguards waiting in the shadows.

“Well, ta-ta for now, darling. Daddy has work to do. I’ll see you in London very, very soon.”

Mycroft’s mobile pinges in his pocket, but he doesn’t remove his eyes from Moriarty’s figure until he can’t see him any longer. He takes out the text for Sherlock to read with him. Anthea.

_Let him leave, sir. We’re tailing him now. He arrived at your hotel 8 minutes ago. Private jet. Three men only. We think he traced your brother via mobile GPS. Your parents are safe in their suite._

*** *** ***

The invisible security detail tailing them has materialised by the suite door by the time they arrive. After a thorough check they announce the suite untouched and leave. By unspoken agreement Mycroft and Sherlock sweep the suite again. They can’t afford other people’s unexpected incompetence, not now.

They find nothing. Another message from Anthea informs Mycroft that Moriarty has indeed taken a different jet back to England and that no one is tailing them, but it does nothing for the sour taste inside Mycroft’s mouth.

As soon as Mycroft hangs up, Sherlock picks the mobile from his fingers, sets it on the table, and pulls him into an embrace. Mycroft’s fingers fist in his brother’s shirt, crushing him in a long hug.

They’re back at square one. Everything Sherlock has been through for two years (three, if Mycroft counts the fall and everything leading to it, and he does) has been in vain.

They undress silently and lie in each other’s arms. Sleep eludes them, of course, but it’s the least of Mycroft’s worries. He can hear the wheels turning in Sherlock’s lovely, stubborn head. There’s a lump in his throat in the shape of Sherlock’s impatience to find out what Moriarty’s planning. Mycroft himself can’t begin to fathom how Moriarty’s going to walk around London with his face exposed, with Sherlock’s reputation cleared nearly a year ago.

“You’re hard,” Sherlock says suddenly.

 _Naturally._ Mycroft sighs, tightening his arms around Sherlock. “It’s not my fault. Look at you.”

“Then it’s not my fault too,” Sherlock says, shifting, his erection dragging against Mycroft’s thigh before nudging his cock. Mycroft bites off a moan.

“Stop trying to distract me, Sherlock. I know what you’re doing.”

The stillness that greets him after he speaks makes him realise how horrible he has just sounded.

Sherlock starts to clamber off him. Mycroft wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “No, sorry. I… didn’t mean it like that.”

Sherlock stills but turns his face resolutely to the side. “Are you sure? Because it sounded to me like you meant it.”

Both of them are hard, and Mycroft finds he is too exhausted and aroused to pick his words with his usual care. “I don’t trust you not to rush headlong into whatever puzzle he’s got for you. Damn it, he knows you – he knows if he dangles one tiny thread of the puzzle you won’t be able to help yourself, just like-”

“Just like what, precisely?” This time Sherlock climbs off him and gets out of bed. “Just like I planned for months with you before fooling him? Fuck you very much, Mycroft. You were there every step of the way.”

Mycroft tries to keep his voice level. “That’s not true-”

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock is breathtaking even in anger, his nude body silver in the moonlight. “Not true? So when we meticulously planned for me to give up my work and my life for my friends, I only envisioned you there, you weren’t really-”

“Fuck _you._ I wasn’t there for the next two years. When I finally found you I had to fucking _watch_ you being tortured. Do you have any idea what that… What it..” Mycroft closes his eyes and tries to swallow around the hot ache in his chest. A vague mortification at his outburst fizzes and dies under the crushing terror of what Sherlock had to endure without him, what Sherlock might face now.

Moriarty is still as obsessed with Sherlock as ever. _Making love to you while you bleed to death._

A collar and a leash to show off Sherlock’s eyes. _Oh my God…_

The bed dips beside him. He pulls Sherlock to him gratefully, gladly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise…” Sherlock trails off, lips parting for Mycroft’s tongue, slender fingers threading in Mycroft’s hair.

“Nothing can happen to you,” Mycroft pleads against Sherlock’s lips. “Not again. _Enough,_ Sherlock.”

“I won’t be reckless, I promise. There is… _immeasurably_ more at stake this time. Can’t you see?” Sherlock kisses him. “I have you.”

“You’ve always had me, Sherlock.”

“Not what I meant and you know it.” Then Sherlock wraps his fingers around Mycroft’s cock and strokes.

Mycroft can’t find his voice. Yesterday’s near-heartbreak and today’s exhaustion and the horrible shock of finding out Moriarty all conspire against him. He looks up at the ethereal, precious face framed by moonlight trickling through the window as Sherlock strokes him, flicking his wrist brilliantly at the end of every stroke. Mycroft is _leaking._ There’s only the crashing of the waves. The crisp rustling of the trees. Sherlock’s soft, short breaths. Sherlock never breaks their gaze, his curls shaking, his slender shoulder almost jerking out of its socket as his strokes speed up.

Mycroft is lost in the silver blue of Sherlock’s eyes as his orgasm is pulled slowly, exquisitely from every cell in his body. His hands are splayed on Sherlock’s ears, jaw, the sides of his graceful neck. Sherlock’s darkened eyes watch Mycroft’s and Mycroft can’t close his eyes as he pulses in his brother’s hand.

Then Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and Mycroft’s thigh and balls are drenched in a rush of liquid heat. Sherlock came untouched. Mycroft pants, pulls Sherlock for more breathless kisses.

For a few minutes, as he devours Sherlock’s lips and presses his open mouth against Sherlock's jaw and neck while Sherlock gasps his name in Mycroft’s ear, Mycroft feels invincible.

*** *** ***

At some point during the four hours Mycroft has slept, Sherlock has rolled off to his back. Mycroft watches his brother sleeping peacefully. An overwhelming rush of love and terror for Sherlock floods him. He leans down to press a light kiss on Sherlock’s pale shoulder.

Sherlock stirs. And immediately moves back into Mycroft’s arms. “Please. You’re not actually staying up… guarding me?” His voice is dripping with sleep as he throws a leg over Mycroft’s.

Mycroft’s fingers wrap around his waist, tighten. “Go back to sleep.”

He watches Sherlock sleep until, sometime after dawn, he drifts off again.

*** *** ***

They’ve overslept, and their parents are waiting so they can have breakfast by the pool. Sherlock is already dressed, beautiful and fresh in a purple button down and white swimming trunks. There’s no dress code for breakfast. Some people actually go to the breakfast buffet only in swimming gear, Sherlock had mentioned earlier.

Sherlock is perched on the nightstand, dragging his bare feet in the carpet and watching Mycroft search for his green polo shirt in his suitcase.

It occurs to Mycroft that if they haven’t even unpacked, it would be much easier to just fly back and ignore the Prime Minister’s update this morning insisting that their presence together in a hotel is actually safer, at least until Moriarty’s scenario becomes clearer. Mycroft knows his house. No one can touch Sherlock there.

Then again, he can hardly imprison Sherlock in his house. At least here he can spend all day with him.

“What you said…” Mycroft searches his memory for the exact day as he puts on his polo shirt. “Before yesterday, you said something about having a way out in case someone finds out about… us. What did you mean?”

“You mean when you tried to drive me away?” Sherlock’s smile is warm, however, and Mycroft can’t deny he deserves far more than a little good-natured needling.

If Sherlock hadn’t read him and come after him… He shudders and puts the thought out of his mind. Sherlock hasn’t answered yet. “Well?” Mycroft prods. “What did you mean?”

Sherlock is suddenly suspiciously interested in the carpet. He drags a hand through his curls. “Nobody’s found anything, right?”

“No, but I’d like to know what you meant. You did say that you had a way out.”

“But nobody’s found out anything. What brought this on?”

Mycroft puts down his comb and walks over to Sherlock. “All right. I was merely curious. Now I must know.”

“I’ll tell you when someone finds out,” Sherlock insists, unusually reticent.

“Sherlock, you know that if you have a… plan, I should know too. Something like… incest, well. If someone finds out, you can be sure there will be no way around it.”

“Oh, there is,” Sherlock says defiantly.

Mycroft tugs a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “You can’t trick society into condoning incest, Sherlock. No matter how brilliant you are.”

“It’s only incest if we’re brothers.”

Silence. “We are brothers.”

“By blood, I mean.”

“Which we are. As you very well know,” Mycroft says, willing himself not to shake the information out of his maddening, precious brother.

“Not if I was adopted. Especially if I’ve always known I was adopted. Which open-minded families do. We are a very open-minded family… you know that.”

Mycroft studies Sherlock’s face for any traces of… anything, really. Because Sherlock can’t possibly mean what Mycroft thinks he means.

“I’m not high, in case you’re wondering.”

“Sherlock, for the first time in my life,” Mycroft says quietly, “I’m going to ask you to treat me like an idiot. Spell it out for me.”

“I just told you. It’s not incest if I’m adopted. Not socially at least. Legally… I don’t know. I’d have to check. But since nobody even knows-”

“You’re not adopted.”

“Easily fixed.”

Mycroft is aware he’s gaping at Sherlock. “What do you mean?”

“You really want me to spell it out.” Sherlock breaks their gaze, examines his slender hands. “It took you no time at all to get Irene Adler a new identity.”

Mycroft thinks hysterically that he’s going through the textbook stages of shock. Confusion. Weak knees. “You would…” He doesn’t recognise his voice. “You would give up your real identity? Your name? Sherlock-”

“I don’t have to give up my name. Well… Not if…” Sherlock trails off. He gets up, leans over the bed to rummage in his suitcase.

“You can’t possibly end the discussion now – I still don’t-”

Something cold and smooth is pressed into Mycroft’s palm. “I don’t have to give up my name. If you’ll give me yours.”

Mycroft is aware he’s gone very still. He fingers the object, rolls it in his palm.

Sherlock plucks the gold ring out of his grip, slides it around his finger. Slides a matching ring on his own slender finger. “Mine’s the same.”

Speechless, he looks at Sherlock. Sherlock won’t meet his eyes.

“You’re… scaring me.” Sherlock says, pulling the rings off (the act leaves Mycroft strangely bereft, and he refuses to think about what that means) and pocketing them. “Forget it, if you want. Just don’t… Don’t think about it now. And anyway… I mean, why should anyone find out anything? Honestly, a little optimism never killed anyone, Mycroft. Must you always worry about everything eons before anything goes wrong?”

Sherlock’s grumbling is belied by the soft kiss he presses on Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft kisses him back hungrily. A few minutes later they can no longer ignore Mummy’s calls to both their mobiles without seriously alarming her. Mycroft follows Sherlock out of the suite in a daze.

*** *** ***

“Mikey, are you all right?”

Mummy has pushed her sunglasses up, peering at his face in concern. Sherlock’s eyes haven’t left him since they all sat down around the breakfast table by the pool.

For once, he can’t summon any indignation at Mummy’s usual nickname for him. The delicious aromas of the fresh breakfast laid out barely register. Even Moriarty is only a feeble presence at the periphery of his mind.

Mycroft is _reeling._ In fact he has been since… He rubs his eyes, clears his throat. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep well, I think.”

The sunlight shimmers in Sherlock’s curls and paints his porcelain skin golden. Mycroft thinks of keeping the love of his life next to him, bound to him forever, silencing anyone who would dare object…

 _Oh God._ He’s actually thinking about it.

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine at all, sweetheart,” Mummy says.

Mummy. What’s Sherlock’s answer to that? It’s not like Sherlock to overlook such a glaring… Mycroft shies from _obstacle_ but… They might fool the entire world but they will never fool her, because she knows just as well as they know that they are brothers. His mouth tastes bitter with frustration. Sherlock has dangled something in front of him without thinking it through and now… Mycroft’s heart starts hammering as he realises exactly why he’s frustrated.

He wants it, damn it. He can still feel the ring around his finger. It leaves a rock in his solar plexus and an exquisite lump in his throat and a trembling in his fingers.

He has to think, has to list all the reasons this is sheer lunacy, because if he’s going to convince Sherlock he has to convince himself first. For the first time in his life he can’t think because there’s a hateful, unnecessary physical distance between him and his brother. It has never made his thoughts stumble before.

Mummy has always been so unconventionally open-minded, and…

_Oh my God._

“Maybe you need a walk. Some ocean air instead of chlorinated water vapour.” Sherlock not only says this in a steady voice but actually conducts a ridiculous show of gripping his chin gently with his graceful fingers and looking into his eyes in concern. Mycroft simply lets him, looking right back into his brother’s eyes.

He closes his eyes and sighs. It will confirm his parents’ suspicions that he’s coming down with something. He’s immensely grateful for that. He cannot summon up the sufficient energy to mask anything.

Sherlock’s touch leaves his chin. He swallows. There’s an ache inside him and he needs to touch Sherlock.

“A short walk sounds like a good idea. Let’s all go,” Mummy says.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock huffs. “Mycroft won’t go if you miss breakfast on his account. I’m full anyway. Let’s go.” Sherlock’s hand rests warmly on his shoulder. Mycroft clamps down on the powerful urge to lean against it, to pull Sherlock to straddle him, to press a reverent kiss on that perfect cupid’s bow.

His senses, usually razor sharp especially around Sherlock, are now dulled, clogged.

He can feel Sherlock’s bright gaze on him as they stroll slowly side by side. He watches Sherlock’s bare feet dip into the warm sand, watches the waves swirl around his toes before they drag themselves back.  Sherlock’s toes would be salty. He’d like to suck them, he finds.

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this." Mycroft laughs, shocked at himself. “I want to hold your hand, Sherlock.”

He glances at Sherlock, who immediately shoves his hands into his trunk pockets. “So do I.”

Mycroft wonders if salty ocean air is an aphrodisiac. Everything seems to be, around Sherlock.

“We could, one day…” Sherlock trails off. “If…”

They’re at the end of the wide part of the beach. The huge, intricate rock formations have attracted many tourists taking snapshots. A guide asks her group in very good English to follow her on the narrow rocky path because the water taxis for whale watching have arrived.

As the last of the whale-watching tour climbs onto the path, Sherlock says, “come on,” and darts onto the path.

They have barely made it halfway through the path when Sherlock makes a show of pointing at a stone wall to the right and wading in the shallow water towards it. Mycroft follows him and finds himself splashing into a cove hidden behind the stone wall. Sherlock’s fingers steady him… before pulling him into a brutal kiss.

“My people are following us, Sherlock,” he says breathlessly.

“We have eight minutes before your minions can push through the crowds to reach us here. Kiss me.”

Mycroft wastes no time complying. It’s wet and desperate and Mycroft can’t get enough. Sherlock lets Mycroft fuck his mouth, presses himself flush against Mycroft, their erections straining through layers of clothes, hot lines nudging each other.

The noise of the ocean and the crowds is drowned out by the cove walls. There’s only the dripping of the stalactites on the water around their feet, the slick sounds of kissing, the little sighs and moans Sherlock makes into the kiss. Sherlock’s shaky breaths are warm on Mycroft’s lips, ragged and shallow and _precious._

“I love you, Mycroft, I love you,” Sherlock whispers into his mouth. Mycroft looks at his brother’s beautiful face, lit by the glow worms on the walls and the amber mist filling the cove, his lush lips wet with Mycroft’s saliva. Remembers the ring sliding silkily around his finger.

Something inside him shatters. His mouth finds Sherlock’s lips, jaw, neck, and he lets Sherlock put him back together.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no words to thank the amazing people who still ask about this fic and have stuck by it all this time. Thank you! You are all incredible. The last chapter will be up in a few hours. 
> 
> Warnings. Anyone who is even slightly fond of Mary probably already knows this, but just in case: Mary will be treated very viciously in this fic, and John's heart will be broken. 
> 
> Also, brief mention of watersports. Not the actual thing.

Mycroft stops trying to go back to sleep.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinks 4:57 am. Four hours of sleep, then -- it’ll do. Perhaps he’ll take a nap in the afternoon. He turns gently onto his side, careful not to dislodge the slender hand resting on his belly, and drinks in the sight of Sherlock sprawled on his stomach next to him, sated and sticky and fast asleep.

Even this early – dawn is just beginning to dissolve the darkness in the room – the Mexican breeze is warm. Mycroft’s eyes follow the pleasing contours of Sherlock’s nude body. The bone-deep need inside him unfurls, hot and keen, only briefly sated by their spectacular session a mere few hours ago.

It should alarm him, to _hunger_ for Sherlock so savagely that being inside him is barely close enough. To look at Sherlock sleeping and find that he cannot breathe. It should shock him – but it doesn’t. Nothing about this lifelong love for his brother has been anything less than fiercely all-consuming. Even Sherlock’s… proposal yesterday morning (precious, _unbelievable_ reassurance that Sherlock not only wants this for some time to come but wants it _forever)_ hasn’t taken the edge off Mycroft’s fire.

Sherlock’s bare back rises and falls hypnotically. Pity that it’s too cold in London to sleep nude. He should’ve taken the Prime Minister up on his suggestion to spend a full week here, Mycroft thinks wistfully.

His mobile pinges. Anthea’s personalised text ringtone – at dawn? He sits up, alarmed.

_5:11 am. Plan B active. Private jet dispatched to collect you and your family, sir. ETA 12:00 noon. Sorry for cutting the trip short._

He carefully slides out of bed and pads to the ensuite, dialling Anthea’s number.

“What happened?”

“Our man’s missing.”

He’s not going to waste his or Anthea’s time by useless exclamations of disbelief.

“He went missing two hours ago. We’ve combed the entire city.” She hesitates. “Sir-”

“ _No._ ”

“Sir, this reeks of Moriarty, and your brother is our best chance at-”

“We’ve already discussed this. _No._ They’ve combed the city, you say?” He ignores Anthea’s exasperated sigh and his own unease. “I assume he stuck to the agreed-upon routes?”

“He was on his way back to the office. A black car cut him off. No number plates. Our people were there five minutes later but his car was empty by then.”

“The surveillance feed?”

“The cameras were… blindsided, if you’d believe, sir.”

“I would.” Only one person Mycroft knows would choose silly, amateurish mischief instead of simply damaging the CCTV cameras permanently. He wonders grimly if the agent is already strapped to a bomb.

Anthea clears her throat. “We tightened Irene Adler’s security per your instructions yesterday, sir. Since then we’ve thwarted two attempts to breach her security. I’d like to arrange for her to return to the USA tonight.”

“I agree. Soonest would be best, Anthea. Thank you.”

He pads back into the room and slides into bed, the warmth of Sherlock’s body heat a welcome reassurance. Now Irene Adler not only owes Sherlock her life and Mycroft her safety, but she also owes Mycroft for encroaching on his precious time alone with Sherlock, he thinks irritably.

*** *** ***

_“Moriarty will go after Irene. You know that, Mycroft. She needs upgraded security as long as she’s in England.”_

_“Then she shouldn’t be in England,” Mycroft mutters absent-mindedly, watching Sherlock splash through the shallow water as they leave the cove. Mycroft’s lips are still tingling from Sherlock’s stolen kisses. His head is still spinning, the cool slide of Sherlock’s ring still echoing around his finger. He couldn’t care less about Irene Adler._

_“You’re not listening.” Sherlock looks like a seven-year-old as he scowls at Mycroft and walks backwards, swinging his flip-flops from one hand, the careless grace stealing Mycroft’s breath away._

_“You’re right.” Sherlock’s swimming trunks hang tantalisingly low on his brother’s narrow hips and Mycroft’s blood heats. “Upstairs. I’ll listen upstairs.”_

_Sherlock scowls but the hitch in his breath says something else, and if they don’t hurry to their suite Mycroft really will risk dragging his brother to the nearest closed space where he can kiss that mouth._

_Sherlock continues discussing Irene Adler in the lift. As soon as they’re in Mycroft’s bedroom, Mycroft pushes Sherlock against the door and kisses him feverishly, snaking a leg between Sherlock’s._

_“Also… ah… most importantly, she’s the only person I ever told about… you.”_

_Mycroft’s lips stutter on the soft skin below Sherlock’s ear. He raises his head and meets Sherlock’s impossibly soft gaze. The high spots of colour on his brother’s cheeks are so exquisite Mycroft is lost for words._

_“But you already know that.”_

_“Yes,” Mycroft says quietly, every second of that first unforgettable evening etched into his very cells._

_“I didn’t mention your name – which, well… you know as well,” Sherlock says, endearingly redundant, his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. “I’ve never told anyone else. But I actually talked about it at length to Irene.”_

_Mycroft’s fingers curl on Sherlock’s warm hips. “I recall her saying you turned her down.”_

_“Repeatedly. That was the only time it worked. She immediately got up to put something on.”_

_“What?”_

_“Well, that’s why I told her. She was straddling me and her breasts were hanging too close to my-”_

_“You know,” Mycroft snarls, “I think I’ll give Moriarty her exact location myself.”_

_“Mycroft,” Sherlock chastises._

_Mycroft plunders his mouth, Sherlock’s pliant embrace soothing the stab of jealousy._

_“She’s my friend,” Sherlock murmurs, his fingers snaking into the front of Mycroft’s trunks, and Mycroft moans into his mouth._

_Mycroft recalls that evening – his giddy shock that Sherlock wanted him and the heady rush that someone had witnessed him staking his claim on Sherlock. Witnessed and acknowledged. He sighs against his brother’s perfect lips. “Let me call Anthea.”_

_Sherlock beams. Mycroft has barely hung up with Anthea when Sherlock tugs off their trunks and pushes Mycroft onto the bed, before gliding down and pressing a kiss to the inside of Mycroft’s thigh._

_“Let me thank you,” Sherlock breathes._

*** *** ***

Heat floods Mycroft’s veins and he bites his lip. Sherlock shifts, rolls half on top of Mycroft’s chest, one leg thrown over Mycroft’s. A rush of desperate emotion tears hotly through him. He wraps an arm around his brother, pulling him closer.

The chilling image of Moriarty’s fingers closing around Sherlock’s slender wrist swirls in his mind’s eye. His arm tightens around Sherlock’s back.

If it is indeed Moriarty who’s kidnapped the agent (and Mycroft is almost certain it is), then he has definitely found out about Anthea’s plan. Which means he will be watching Sherlock like a hawk.

Sherlock stirs, sighing softly against Mycroft’s neck. _Nothing can touch you. Please._

The problem is Moriarty knows Sherlock far too well – obsessively well, Mycroft thinks, furious unease twisting in his gut. Moriarty knows Sherlock is too anxious for a puzzle to wait and share it with the police. And Moriarty knows that underneath all the ludicrous sociopath nonsense, Sherlock wants to save innocent lives.

And Moriarty knows that Sherlock thinks nothing can touch him, which is the most dangerous among all of Sherlock’s self-destructive tendencies and the one thing Mycroft cannot change.

All Moriarty has to do is dangle a puzzle along with the dazzling illusion of potential lives that could be saved, and Sherlock will rush headlong into it and nothing will stop him. Nothing and no one.

Not even Mycroft.

He resolutely ignores the black despair this thought always evokes, focusing instead on his single solace: Moriarty doesn’t know that nothing will stop Mycroft either. This is their single advantage over Moriarty. Incredibly, _ridiculously,_ Moriarty actually thinks Sherlock is nothing more than the ex-addict, disappointing younger brother to Mycroft.

Even better, Moriarty thinks nothing can touch him either. Good.

Sherlock lifts his head, curls in spectacular disarray, pries open one eye and smiles sleepily at Mycroft. “What are you…”

He sees. _Of course_ he sees – Mycroft hasn’t had time to school his face back, too unsettled by his thoughts. Mycroft watches in dread as Sherlock’s gaze sharpens with realisation and disbelief: Mycroft has been deliberately keeping something from him. For several days.

Sherlock clears his throat. “If you tell me now, I’ll _think_ about forgiving you.”

“Sherlock-”

“ _Again?_ I can’t believe this. I… Fine. No, you know what? It’s _not_ fine.” Sherlock twists out of Mycroft’s arms, kicks back the tangle of sheets around his feet and staggers out of bed, his body still unsteady with sleep.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft scrambles to sit up even as his eyes helplessly fall on the heavy erection hanging between Sherlock’s thighs.

“To piss,” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft’s mouth goes dry and he curses his filthy brain. “And to think. I’m going to think of a reason why you still can’t trust me, Mycroft. Fuck you, just two days ago – two bloody days ago you promised you wouldn’t push me away again and-”

“It’s not… Come back to bed, please.”

“It’s not what? Not about trust? Look-”

Mycroft sighs. “I _was_ going to tell you the other day. The day I brought that report.”

“You mean the day you fucking _crushed_ me in order to ‘keep me safe’? Forgive me if I don’t take your word as gospel now that you’re clearly about to do it _again_.”

“What? _No._ ” Mycroft springs up to his knees on the bed. “No, Sherlock. I would never – I _could_ never do that again.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “You weren’t going to try and… break up with me again?”

“ _No._ ” At the uncertain look Sherlock gives him, Mycroft finds himself moving on his knees amidst the sheets to the edge of the bed, his hands curling around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock lets him. “This will only be over when you-”

The wind is knocked out of him as Sherlock kisses him passionately, soothing _that_ hateful thought. “Rubbish deduction. Shame on you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft pulls him back into the kiss, dragging Sherlock to lie on top of him and parting Sherlock’s legs with his.

“I said I’d _think_ about forgiving you,” Sherlock murmurs. “Talk. And make me come. Fast. I need to _pee._ ”

Mycroft’s brain stumbles as Sherlock brings Mycroft’s fingers to curl around his cock.

“I think the lube rolled under the bed last night,” Sherlock whispers into his ear, rocking against him. Their cocks brush and Mycroft’s stutters shaky breaths against Sherlock’s mouth.

“Wh… What?”

Sherlock tilts his hips up, and Mycroft’s cock slips between his cheeks, the dripping head nestled at Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock pushes against Mycroft’s cock teasingly. Lust fogs Mycroft’s brain. Sherlock’s tongue laps at Mycroft’s earlobe. “The lube-”

“You… ah… overestimate me,” Mycroft gasps, exquisite tendrils of fire shooting from his ear to his cock, “if you think I can… talk… and fuck you at the same… oh dear god, you’re _gorgeous-_ ”

“Fuck me first, then.”

*** *** ***

“Neat,” Sherlock says, licking salt off his fingers, his damp curls splashed on Mycroft’s bare belly. “You forgot one thing though.”

Sherlock reaches back into the bag of salted peanuts he’d fished from the room minibar, finally starving after the explosive orgasm and the subsequent long kissing session in the bath. Mycroft watches the lovely, pointed pink tongue and tries to ignore the panic prickling underneath his skin. “What?”

“Someone should get Irene to your house as soon as we get there. She’ll be safest there until she leaves tonight. It’ll only be a few hours.”

Mycroft’s fingers thread nonsensical paths in Sherlock’s curls. Their gazes lock, and it’s downright ridiculous that Sherlock still believes he can outwit Mycroft sometimes, Mycroft thinks in a hot snarl of affection and exasperation. Irene Adler is perfectly safe, Sherlock’s argument is glaringly false, and they both know it. Sherlock even knows that Mycroft knows, for crying out loud.

Surely Sherlock also knows that Mycroft will have him tailed. Mycroft doesn’t need to search his beautiful face to know he’s planning on losing Mycroft’s people. He’s done it before.

 _Fine._ Mycroft will tail him himself this time.

He breaks their gaze and nods, his fingers tightening in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock raises himself up and Mycroft’s lips part for him as he loses himself in the kiss.

Too soon, Sherlock tears his mouth away. And grins. “You’re _still_ out of breath? And here I thought you could keep up with me-”

Mycroft pulls him back, sucks the salt off his tongue desperately. _Nothing can happen to you._

Not only does Sherlock believe he can outwit Mycroft sometimes, he actually believes that no one else can read him at all. Even though Moriarty, Mary, and Magnussen all read him – _played_ him – effortlessly, Sherlock still thinks his mind is a closed fortress to everyone.

Forever – Mycroft is forever destined to chase after Sherlock and pray he’s not too late. He clamps down on the sting of fear. Sherlock’s toes curl against Mycroft’s calf as he moans into Mycroft’s mouth. Idiot, Mycroft thinks savagely. _Precious, stubborn idiot._ “So, neat plan, you said?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says breathlessly, splaying his fingers on Mycroft’s bare shoulder and dragging his lips against Mycroft’s as he clambers on top of him, plastering their bodies together. “Very neat.”

_Nothing can happen to you._

*** *** ***

Incredibly, Sherlock falls asleep again on the private jet. Mycroft is glad his parents chose seats near the cockpit: His eyes keep straying from his book to Sherlock, sprawled on his back, limbs deliciously akimbo, on the lone sofa near the back of the aisle.

His gaze lingers on Sherlock’s peaceful features in wonder. Everyone has always been concerned about Sherlock’s sleep patterns – their parents, Mrs Hudson, John. And yet Sherlock slept every night in Los Cabos. In his arms.

It’s not just the sex either – something Mycroft knows painfully well. Before the cocaine, when Mycroft had just had surveillance cameras installed in Sherlock’s dorm at uni. When he had still been pretending to himself that his feelings for Sherlock were simply overprotective brotherly love. Mycroft’s relief at being finally able to make sure his brother was safe twisted into torture at the parade of conquests waltzing in and out of Sherlock’s room.

Jealousy jolts hotly through Mycroft at the memory and he reminds himself that despite his brother’s sex olympics, Sherlock had only slept sporadically and never, _ever_ in anyone’s arms.

The idea that only Mycroft’s embrace has the peace Sherlock needs… Mycroft swallows back the giddy whirlwind inside him. He watches Sherlock shift again, pushing his neck into a crazy position. Relief floods him at the opportunity to touch. He gets up deliberately slowly, keeping a faintly amused face even though his back is to their parents. He adjusts Sherlock’s head gently and brushes the fringe off his forehead. Something dangerously warm bubbles in his gut as he tears himself away and turns around.

Mummy’s sharp gaze is pinned on him.

Mycroft swallows and hastily chases any traces of surprise off his face, smiling at both his parents. Mummy’s smile is a touch too thoughtful for his liking. Heart hammering, he forces his feet not to rush, walking calmly past the tiny dinette to his parent’s seats.

Mummy can’t possibly… But if there’s one person he knows of whose brain is even more magnificent than Mycroft’s, it’s his mother. He sifts through his and Sherlock’s behaviour outside the suite. No, neither of them has been careless in any way.

“I’m sorry our trip had to be cut short,” he says.

“Oh, it’s only one day that we lost. We had a lovely time, dear,” Daddy says, putting down the Guardian crossword and fiddling with his glasses. Mycroft can sense Mummy’s eyes on him, and he forces himself not to squirm.

“We won’t let such a long time pass before the next trip, then.” _Don’t babble._ Only people with something to hide talk too much, he tells himself furiously.

Mummy smiles. _Finally._ “It was a lovely surprise, dear. All of us together. And in the middle of winter too. Thank you, Mikey.”

The nickname doesn’t even register as he injects a little more brightness into his smile. “Tea?” Without waiting for their reply, he signals the steward.

At the end of the aisle, Sherlock throws one leg over the back of the sofa and tucks his arms behind his head, his shirt snaking out of his trousers.

Mycroft makes a show of checking his messages until the traitorous flush fades from his face, while the steward waits expectantly.

Mycroft clears his throat. “A pot of Darjeeling, please, and some dark chocolate truffles, I think.”

Daddy grunts appreciatively, resuming his crossword, as Mycroft slides into the seat opposite Mummy’s.

“I think Sherlock had the best time of all of us put together though.” Mummy sighs. “So sullen and angry, all those years. Then one trip to the beach and suddenly my old Sherlock’s back.” A bigger sigh. “And now he’s in trouble again.”

A mother’s instinct? The idea unbalances the precarious lid Mycroft has wrangled on top of his fears for Sherlock’s safety. His head suddenly swarms with endless ugly scenarios. Mycroft tries to cram the dark thoughts back while the steward lays out the tea and leaves. “I’m afraid I’m to blame for this – it’s just a security measure my office insisted on. There’s nothing to worry about-”

“Don’t patronise me, Mikey.”

“It _is_ a security measure-”

“A very elegant way of saying ‘Sherlock is in trouble’. I told you not to patronise me, darling.”

“I wasn’t. It does involve Sherlock, but-”

“It’s you I’m worried about, Mycroft.”

Mycroft blinks. “I’m perfectly fine, Mummy.”

“Because as long as Sherlock is fine, you’re fine?”

Mycroft only barely stops his head whipping up and focuses on pouring the tea. Surely there’s nothing incriminating in admitting this? “Of course.”

Daddy glances at him fondly. “He’s always been like that, Viola. They’re both too smart for anyone else, dear.”

“All Mycroft does is pick up after Sherlock, Siger.”

Thrown, Mycroft deliberately fiddles with the sugar longer than necessary.

She sighs. “Of course I’m glad you’re always there for Sherlock, dear, but I worry about you. For all his brilliance, there’s so much your brother doesn’t… refuses to understand.”

Mycroft bristles, and reminds himself that this is Mummy, not an ignorant teacher or classmate of Sherlock’s. “It can’t be important, then, and in any case he does know how to blend in when he needs to-”

“That’s precisely why I’m worried about you, Mycroft. Too much time around Sherlock and you start making excuses for him. You’ve always done that, darling. I _know_ how tedious people can be, Mikey. But I deal with it. You deal with it, and god knows what anathema there is in your line of work. He refuses to even try – no, he’s too impatient, or it’s too dull.”

Mummy takes a deep breath, and Mycroft notices the hard lines of worry and resigned anger etched onto her face as though for the first time. He doesn’t know what her point is, and it unsettles him.

“I know how you boys must have felt growing up. That it was the two of you against the entire world. God knows you were smarter than the rest of your school combined. I just worry that he might make you believe that.”

“Believe what?”

“That you can ignore society as you see fit, like your brother does. That all taboos can be broken if you’re smart enough.”

Mycroft wonders if this is how all those insects had felt under the microscope he had taught a seven-year-old Sherlock how to use. “Of course I don’t believe that. Neither does Sherlock.”

“I know you don’t, but I couldn’t vouch for your brother. Like I said, I’m glad you’re there for him. God knows you’re the only one he will listen to.”

She _knows._

Does she? Frustrated and unnerved, he realises he can’t tell. Perhaps he imagined the sad resignation in her eyes. Perhaps he made it up to convince himself that she loves them just the way they are, even if they were somewhere mothers could never follow. He grasps for anything to say. “More tea?”

“I know how to pour tea, dear. You look like you could use a nap.”

“I should wake Sherlock actually. He’s already slept too long and the jet lag will be… awful.” He trails off under Mummy’s clear gaze. Surely there’s nothing suspicious about sparing Sherlock unnecessary jet lag.

“Take a nap, Mikey. I’m sure we’ll all still be here by the time you wake up,” she says dryly, patting his hand. She means Sherlock, he realises. Probably.

He can’t read her at all.

“Everything will be fine, Mummy.”

“I told you not to patronise me. Go take a nap, dear. We’ll wake you.”

Sherlock wakes up as soon as Mycroft leans over and touches his shoulder once. Thankfully Sherlock doesn’t mistake the sofa for their bed. His eyes linger sleepily on Mycroft’s before they drop to Mycroft’s mouth and darken.

“You’ll have awful jet lag if you don’t get up now.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says softly, eyes glittering. Mycroft is instantly _hard_.

His back is to his parents, but Mycroft knows about posture and the ridiculous wealth of clues to be found in people’s body language, even if their face is hidden. He wills his legs back to his seat and slides in gratefully, his eyes following Sherlock’s form as he unfolds and makes his way to the bathroom.

He has just asked the steward to bring another tea tray for Sherlock (will Mummy read anything into that as well?) when Anthea texts him.

_16:25 Forwarding text just sent by your brother, sir. Please find number in business card._

_16:25 If I find him in six hours, he’s mine. Deal? SM_

_16:27 Forwarding reply._

_16:27 Be still my heart. Deal. And next time I get to play. With you. JM_

All thoughts of Mummy flee his mind at the hot pressure in the midpoint of his gut. Flirting – Sherlock is _flirting_ with Moriarty to solve this puzzle. Mycroft’s rage at Moriarty’s suggestive words churns with his desperate fury at Sherlock. He schools his face as Sherlock struts out of the bathroom and drops into the seat next to him. He watches his brother sip his tea and tastes fear on his tongue. He counts to ten, then counts to ten again, before turning to Sherlock.

“Do you understand -- the idea of anything happening to you-”

“Nothing will happen to me, Mycroft. Stop worrying.”

*** *** ***

Mycroft starts watching Sherlock like a hawk as soon as Mummy and Daddy take off in the private luxury helicopter waiting on the runway. Anthea is visibly smug about including Sherlock in her plan and dives in at once. Mycroft would tell her how galling he finds that if he weren’t covertly observing Sherlock for any signs of whatever haywire plan he’s concocted. To his increasing irritation, he can’t find anything. Sherlock listens to Anthea and asks the questions Mycroft had known he would ask. He doesn’t even touch his mobile.

Finally, _finally_ the car glides to a stop. Sherlock disappears into the downstairs kitchen while the driver sets their luggage in the foyer and leaves.

Mycroft has just turned the last lock when Sherlock comes up behind him and crowds him against the door, pulling Mycroft’s coat off roughly. Sherlock’s hands tear open Mycroft’s trousers and tug them down along with his boxers. The sound of a zipper yanked down sends Mycroft’s blood rushing to his cock as Sherlock’s warm breath swirls on the nape of his neck.

“We’re expecting Irene Adler,” Mycroft gasps as Sherlock’s cock slips between his cheeks.

“Shame,” Sherlock says, teeth grazing Mycroft’s earlobe. “I want to fuck you.”

Mycroft’s vision swims. Sherlock turns him around, the masculine strength stealing Mycroft’s breath away. Sherlock pulls him into a messy kiss, steering him backwards to the sofa. Their bare cocks slide against each other as Mycroft stumbles back, his trousers restricting his movement, his hands trying to untuck Sherlock’s shirt, desperate for skin. Sherlock breaks the kiss and pushes him to sit on the edge of the sofa. Mycroft’s mouth waters at the sinful sight of Sherlock’s cock, jutting out and glistening, Sherlock otherwise fully dressed.

Two cushions are shoved behind Mycroft’s lower back before Sherlock sinks to his knees. He pulls Mycroft’s shoes off roughly then tugs his trousers and boxers away, flinging everything away. “Off, take these off,” he growls, clawing at Mycroft’s shirt and undershirt and tossing them somewhere behind Mycroft. It’s too cold to be nude in the _hall,_ but Mycroft is burning with want.

Mycroft watches, dazed, as Sherlock’s long fingers dip into a bowl of ice cubes he has brought from the kitchen. Sherlock lifts a couple of ice cubes to his mouth and sucks on them, holding Mycroft’s gaze, before spitting them out into the bowl and leaning to nuzzle Mycroft’s cock.

Something doesn’t sit right with Mycroft, but Sherlock exhales tantalising warmth against Mycroft before engulfing Mycroft’s length in his mouth and _sucking_.

Mycroft gasps, his toes curling at the electrifying sensation of ice and heat on his cock. His legs fall obscenely apart, and Sherlock crowds between them. Sherlock drags his fingertips, still cold from the ice cubes, against Mycroft’s balls in a light scratch. Mycroft can’t breathe for the blinding pleasure as he thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth-

The doorbell rings.

Sherlock tears his mouth away, wrenching a keen from Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft watches deliriously as Sherlock stands up fluidly and strokes himself fast and rough, teeth biting on his red bottom lip, before aiming his cock and spurting hot semen all over Mycroft’s neck, torso, and crotch, darkened eyes trained on Mycroft’s.

 _Fuck._ This is it. This is Sherlock’s plan.

Shaking, Mycroft watches in disbelief as Sherlock picks up Mycroft’s discarded pants and wipes his cock sluggishly. He pulls Mycroft to his feet and kisses him passionately, carefully avoiding the come smearing Mycroft. His own come -- Mycroft can see the picture he makes, ridiculously nude in fucking March, painfully hard and with Sherlock’s semen beginning to dry up on his skin.

“I love you. Sorry. I… I’ll make it up to you tonight,” Sherlock pants into his mouth.

Mycroft can’t _think_ for the need – two strokes and he could come right now. But he will still have to get dressed to follow Sherlock, and Sherlock has made sure Mycroft’s clothes are flung all over the hall. “My phone,” Mycroft says through clenched teeth.

“Go upstairs and put something on first – I’m not going to open the door with you like this,” Sherlock says, glancing at Mycroft’s cock – he has the _gall_ to…

“Hand me my phone, Sherlock.”

The door rings again.

“In a minute,” Sherlock calls out. “I have to get the door -- go upstairs and-”

“Fuck you.” Mycroft turns and stumbles up the stairs as fast as he can.

He yanks open the drawer in his nightstand where he keeps a prepaid mobile. “Don’t lose him,” he says as soon as Anthea picks up.

“He hasn’t left yet. Ms Adler just went in… Oh. Yes, he just left. We won’t lose him. Are you all right, sir?”

“Yes,” he says, trying to steady his breath.

He snatches a towel and holds it under the hot water, then cleans himself fast, shivering, before hurrying back into the room and throwing on the first shirt and pair of trousers he finds in his wardrobe, willing away the smother of memories of the only two other times in his life when he had dressed just as blindly and rushed out.

When his people had finally found Sherlock, collapsed in an alley in his own vomit, the darkest point in his black tango with cocaine.

When a shrill call had jolted Mycroft out of sleep to inform him of an explosion across the street from 221b.

The hateful hospital walls rise unbidden in his memory, the day Sherlock was shot while Mycroft was in the office – fully dressed, his brain supplies half-hysterically. Mycroft dashes down the corridor, furious with himself for once again forgetting everything under Sherlock’s touch. His coat is downstairs and he hasn’t wasted time on a tie or suit jacket, but he’s still lost precious minutes.

At least this time his team has been informed since today morning to expect Sherlock’s attempts at losing them. At least this time Mary’s in prison. He gathers the foul unease in his mouth into something scathing to greet Irene Adler with – does she think it’s all a game, teaming up with Sherlock like two imbecilic schoolchildren, when she _knows_ Moriarty’s obsession with Sherlock is…

Irene Adler is lying on the floor in the hall, her head lolling convincingly from side to side. Her coat is a bundle of fur on the floor next to her, but her luggage is stacked neatly, not one suitcase knocked over or torn open.

He doesn’t have time for this ridiculous charade _,_ he’s tempted to say, when he spots one of the antique console table’s slim drawers hanging open. Mycroft’s phone is on the table, although his clothes and coat are nowhere to be seen.

Mycroft surveys the neat line of ampoules and sterile syringes, beside which lies a broken, empty ampoule and a used syringe. _Oh._

Irene groans faintly, the sloppily placed plaster on the side of her neck and the faint smell of disinfectant confirming Mycroft’s deductions. Even without those, one close look at her face is enough. And she hadn’t even known Sherlock was planning anything.

She groans, her forehead pressed against Mycroft’s arm as he helps her impatiently to her feet. Mycroft half-drags, half-supports her to the sofa _grindingly_ slowly, and he forces himself to remember that he now has to wait for Anthea’s text about Sherlock’s location anyway.

The sofa’s entire vicinity smells unmistakably of come. Sherlock’s come… The intimate scent floods Mycroft’s nostrils and a pang rushes through him even as his face heats. He clings to any remaining dregs of his anger at Sherlock as a terrible, familiar fear coils icily in his belly that this may have been the last time he would see Sherlock alive.

He shoves the cushions hastily under Irene’s head and spreads the throw over her wrinkled dress before checking his phone. Anthea should have texted him already, damn it. Maybe his team have closed in on Sherlock themselves, he thinks, heart hammering. Maybe-

Irene coughs, and sluggishly wipes a line of drool from her chin.

“Calm down, Miss Adler,” he says, checking her pulse. Though if Sherlock thinks Mycroft will babysit Irene until his little brother decides to saunter back, he’s sorely mistaken. He checks his phone again. Nothing. “You’ll be fine. Close your eyes for a few minutes please.”

She complies silently, her eyes drifting shut.

His team must have closed in on Sherlock by now. He can picture him glaring at Anthea, that perfect cupid’s bow pursed in anger. They must have found him.

They better have.

His phone rings. _No. No, no._

“Sir, Mary Morstan was declared missing from the evening roll call,” Anthea says without preamble.

Ice floods Mycroft’s veins. “What about Sherlock – where’s Sherlock?”

She hesitates.

Lead. Lead in his throat. In his belly. “They _lost_ him?”

“I’m afraid so. Sir, our people in prison have been searching for Morstan for two hours. She’s only just been declared officially missing.”

“Two hours? And none of those miserable incompetents thought to… Sherlock – Anthea, first and foremost, find Sherlock.”

“We’re trying, but GPS is out -- he switched off his mobile immediately after leaving your house, sir. Moriarty’s phone has been switched off since he sent your brother his reply this afternoon.”

Mycroft feels like he’s on the verge of a stroke. _John._ “Send a car for John Watson. I’ll call him now.”

The bottom of Mycroft’s belly is suddenly missing. _Think._ He needs to stop panicking right now and think. If anyone can find Sherlock, it’s him.

John answers on the first ring. “Mycroft-”

“John, I’ve sent a car for you. Get dressed-”

“I’m dressed. I just came back from the clinic. What’s wrong? Is Sherlock okay?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Mycroft says, the word foul in his mouth. “I don’t know where he is. Meet me here and-”

“The hell I will! I’m going to look for him.”

“By all means wander the streets alone,” Mycroft barks. “My brother’s mobile is switched off and he might be with Moriarty – James Moriarty, very much alive. Your ex-wife was just declared missing from prison. People _know_ you can be used to force Sherlock’s hand. Do I really need to bring up the pool and the bonfire?”

Mycroft hangs up. Sherlock’s mobile remains stubbornly closed. Mycroft wants to smash his phone against the wall and howl. His hands curl into fists as he starts to pace the hall, looking for his coat.

His eyes fall on Irene Adler clutching the throw, eyes wide in terror.

“M… Moriarty? Alive?”

“It’s why your security was modified. The USA is much safer for you now.” No time to play hide and seek with his wallet and coat (Sherlock was always better at that game when they were kids, he thinks with a hot pang). He heads to the staircase to get another coat from his wardrobe.

She groans again and coughs. “Oh my god.”

“Calm down. You’re safe. Sherlock brought you here only because he wanted to distract me, and I thought my team was competent enough not to lose him,” he says bitterly.

Sherlock didn’t even have the decency to allow himself to be tailed. He probably thought Mycroft’s people would ruin his attempt to find the agent. And the morons probably would have, and Mycroft wants to _throttle_ his brother for putting the bloody agent and the puzzle first, when Sherlock knows very well that the agent’s expendable – the entire bloody team is expendable if it means Sherlock’s precious neck on the line.

Someone – Moriarty – has managed to smuggle Morstan out of prison. And Mycroft doesn’t know where Sherlock is.

Both James Moriarty _and_ Mary Morstan on the streets, and Moriarty is the least dangerous of the two. At least Sherlock has been able to outwit him several times.

He heads to the stairs. “I’ll go fetch a coat. You’ll be safe here, Ms Adler, and if-”

The doorbell rings.

 _Finally._ Mycroft dashes to check the feed. John is standing by the front door at attention, looking around suspiciously, his phone in his hand.

Despite his feelings about the man, he can’t deny John is an excellent ally when it comes to protecting Sherlock. Sherlock won’t like it, of course, but he should’ve thought of that first, Mycroft thinks hotly, because if he thinks Mycroft will sit around doing nothing while Sherlock waltzes around with two lunatics on the loose... Mycroft’s fingers curl savagely around the cold doorknob as he undoes the lock system and yanks open the door…

…to find himself looking at the barrel of a gun.

Red. Garish red nail polish. Red coat. An equally ugly shade of red lipstick.

“Come on outside,” Mary says calmly, breath fogging the night air.

Not Sherlock then. It’s Mycroft she’s been after. The icy malevolence glinting in her eyes says she still plans to get to Sherlock but she hasn’t yet.

Mycroft masks the relief that rushes through him. A groan – he peers into the dark and makes out John, lying prone in the grass and trying to sit up. Minor head injury – she pistol-whipped him after giving Mycroft enough time to check his camera feed.

She waves her gun in his face. “Go on – and shut the door.”

“I’m in a shirt and trousers. Can I at least get my coat?”

“You won’t need it.”

Mycroft is starting to shiver despite himself. “The least you could do after the courtesy Sherlock afforded you-”

“What courtesy?” She scoffs. “Turning my husband against me? Leaving me in jail? Are you actually stupider than your little brother?”

“Ms Morstan,” he begins, teeth chattering – she must relish causing him the indignity, “you can accompany me inside, but I need my coat-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? You think you can trick me into a spy’s house? Get out and close the door.”

Even experienced assassins can snap. He pulls the icy handle shut behind him, deciding to humour her for now. “Surely you’re aware that you’re monitored right now.”

“No one will risk my finger squeezing the trigger if I’m shot.”

John groans again and manages to sit up this time. “Mary?”

“What could you possibly gain by hurting me, Ms Morstan? You’ll only get yourself in more trouble.”

She keeps her eyes on Mycroft. “You could’ve got me out of prison. Do you think I don’t know why John didn’t go to prison even though he shot that cabbie?”

“You were caught red-handed participating in newborn trafficking-”

“And John committed _murder_. Please. You could’ve easily kept me out of prison.”

Mycroft stares at her. “He killed the cab driver to save Sherlock’s life. He didn’t shoot my brother.”

“Sherlock and I worked this out between us. It was none of your business.”

“None of my… Are you _delusional?_ ”

“Still, he could’ve made you help me if he wanted. So before I kill you, I want you to know this. I’m not going to kill your pretty brother. His eager fans in prison would be so disappointed. They already have a schedule – they can’t possibly all fuck Sherlock at the same time-”

“Shut up,” Mycroft snarls.

John staggers to his feet. “Sherlock hasn’t done anything to go to prison.”

“Don’t bother looking for your gun, dear,” Mary says coolly. “I had to take it. Just in case Sherlock sticks his hand in your clothes again. He does love to do that.”

John stands at attention. “Why would Sherlock go to prison, Mary?”

“For shooting his brother of course. He wanted money – addicts, so heartbreaking. Of course after I’m done with him he will be so high he won’t be able to string two words together, but I will make him watch me kill you first. Before he’s too high to appreciate it,” she says to Mycroft. “I owe Sherlock that much. So that every single time they take him dry, he’ll know for sure you will _not_ be coming to save his scrawny arse.”

John sniggers. “So, never mind that it’s the most ridiculous plan I’ve ever heard – you think I’m going to stand here and let you do that?”

“Yes. Or I will shoot your pretty detective. In the head, this time. You’re coming with me anyway – unexpected change of plans, I admit, but I suppose I might take another stab at being a family.”

Before John can reply, the front gates creak, and Mycroft’s knees nearly give out when Sherlock walks in – uninjured, _thank god._ His hands are behind his head and a wiry, blond man is following him, holding a gun to his head.

Confusion flits across Sherlock’s face when he sees John standing in the garden, hair matted with blood. Then his hair drains of colour the second he sees Mary pointing her gun at Mycroft.

Their gazes lock. Sherlock’s nostrils flare when he sees Mycroft shivering, and Mycroft wants to bury his clammy hands in the idiot’s curls and _kiss_ him.

Mary glowers at the man. “Why the hell are you so late?”

“Sorry. Unforeseen development.”

“Who is this?” John says.

“Her son,” Sherlock replies coolly, eyes trained on Mary.

Mary sneers. “And yet the brilliant detective never figured it out last year. Look at you. You need to be shot to figure out the tiniest crumbles about me. Even your big brother simply opens the door and comes out, docile as a pigeon.”

“And yet neither of us was stupid enough to buy a bloody child _and_ get caught doing it,” Sherlock replies. “This is your real son, as nightmarish as the concept is. You gave him up for adoption and neglected to inform the father.”

Mary looks at him coolly. “Am I supposed to applaud and scream at your cleverness?”

“You tried to use your pregnancy to bargain with the father first. I’d go as far as to say you got pregnant on purpose thinking it would leverage your status so you’re no longer an expendable, faceless assassin. We’re all naïve at some point. Then you gave up your son so the father would not have anything on you. But he found out later, didn’t he? Which is why you tried to shoot him in his office. Right before you shot me.”

John blinks. “His office? He… You had a child with Magnussen?”

Sherlock has begun shrugging off his coat when Mary barks, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“My brother is _freezing._ It’s the middle of March, for heaven’s sake.”

“Sherlock, I’m fine-”

Mary sneers at Sherlock. “Like I told your big brother, he won’t be needing his coat.”

Sherlock bares his teeth. “If you touch a hair on his head-”

“Javor,” Mary says in a bored voice.

Wordlessly, Javor backs away from Sherlock without lowering his gun and walks to stand behind Mycroft. His gun digs unpleasantly into Mycroft’s spine. Mycroft watches, all his senses focused on Sherlock, as Mary strolls over to Sherlock and aims her gun at his head.

“The back of the house. Quickly and quietly.”

Mycroft takes a step forward. “You’re not taking him anywhere-”

“Shut up,” Mary barks as Javor’s gun digs deeper into Mycroft’s spine. “You don’t give the orders anymore. And John, if you so much as try tackling me, I will shoot Sherlock. I will.” She nudges Sherlock with the gun. “Move. The back of the house.”

Mary’s gun is far too, too close to Sherlock – Mycroft doesn’t know what to _do,_ damn it. She’s going to drug Sherlock. She would have to knock him out with her gun first. Mycroft’s breath in the air morphs into visions of bloody skulls and overdose victims – even if help arrives it might be too late. Fuck, he can’t think with a gun held to Sherlock’s head. Anything – he will do _anything_ to… “No, Ms Morstan, wait. Let me… I’ll arrange for your safe departure-”

A very audible rustle of feet on grass sounds from the back of the house – and then three things happen at once.

Sherlock whirls around and rushes to the back. Mary lunges after him, both of them disappearing from Mycroft’s view. A shot rings out.

Mycroft rushes to the back garden, his heart in his mouth, nearly out of his mind with terror. Mary is sprawled gracelessly on the lawn but points her gun at him and starts clambering to her feet immediately. Shaking, Mycroft searches the dark garden frantically.

He stops breathing when he barely makes out Sherlock sprawled on his stomach a couple of feet away, a growing pool of dark liquid soaking the grass beneath him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. This is a love story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Minor character death and mouth-to-mouth drink swapping. Also -- in case it's a trigger -- blowjob that starts with a flaccid cock.
> 
> Also, the champagne scene is stolen with much reverence and love from My Beautiful Laundrette.
> 
> My deepest thanks to all the amazing people who embraced something I started to make myself feel better and stuck by it. You are all incredible. <3

Sherlock raises himself on all fours, and relief rushes dizzying and hot through Mycroft. Underneath Sherlock Mycroft spots an extremely shocked Irene Adler, red soaking the bottom half of her dress.

Sherlock scrambles to a crouch next to Irene. “Oh my god – John, quick, her thigh.”

“Get up,” Mary says, poking Sherlock’s shoulder with her gun. As soon as Sherlock is safely away from her aim, Mycroft is going to _kill_ her.

Sherlock ignores her completely, cradling Irene up to a sitting position. “You took a bullet for me, you _idiot._ ” He yanks up her dress while John pulls off his jacket and uses his jumper as a makeshift tourniquet. “Too much blood – Mycroft, air ambulance-”

“I said get _up,_ ” Mary screams and kicks Sherlock’s lower back, and rage fogs Mycroft’s vision as Sherlock winces but continues to hold Irene against him.

“You insane bitch,” Mycroft snarls and takes a step forward.

“I don’t think so,” Javor says, his gun digging into Mycroft’s back. Fat drops of rain start plopping down before it starts pouring in earnest.

“How many times do I have to say it?” Mary snaps. “ _I_ give the orders here. You know what, Sherlock? I’ve changed my mind. If you go to prison, you’ll just escape eventually.”

Mycroft furiously blinks the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and growls through clenched teeth, “ _Stop_ pointing your gun at him.”

“Shut _up,_ all of you. Shut up,” Mary barks, her hand wobbling dangerously close to Sherlock’s wet curls.

John tries to get up. “Mary-”

“I told you, John. If you try anything, I will shoot him, I told you-”

“Mother,” Javor says, “allow me.”

She takes a long breath. Nods at him, lowering her gun. The pressure of the muzzle against Mycroft’s spine disappears as Javor points his gun in Sherlock’s direction.

John screams, “No, what are you-” just as a second shot rings out.

“Are you okay?” Mycroft pants, rushing to Sherlock’s side. His fingers dig into his brother’s arms. “Your back – she kicked you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Go put a coat on. I’m _fine._ ” Sherlock holds Irene with one arm and wraps the other for a few glorious seconds around Mycroft’s nearly numb fingers. “John, calm down.”

“Oh my God.” John lets go of Irene and clambers to his feet.

“I just called the ambulance, sir,” the agent’s voice comes. Mycroft nods absent-mindedly, holding Sherlock’s solemn gaze. “I’m terribly sorry if the gun jabbed you too hard, sir, I-”

Sherlock snarls, “You’re _sorry?_ What the _fuck_ is this? She had my brother at fucking gunpoint. You lot let her escape and-”

“Never mind, Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupts, crouching on the other side of Irene, pulling her to lean against him. “Sherlock, your back-”

“Mycroft, you’re in a shirt and trousers, for christ’s sake. Your coat is in the kitchen – go put it on.”

“Oh my god – Sherlock?” John gasps. “Fuck – call an air ambulance.”

Mycroft glances at John. He’s leaning over Mary, who’s lying on the grass shaking violently.

Anthea materialises at his side with a coat and an umbrella as the sounds of the Air Ambulance helicopter fill the air. “Sir, you’re soaking wet.”

“Yes, thank you, in a minute.” They relinquish Irene to the paramedics. Dangerously pale, chignon askew and dress caked with mud, her eyes are drifting shut. “Ms Adler, there’s no room for us in the helicopter. We’ll meet you in hospital in a minute.”

Dizzying warmth engulfs him suddenly as Sherlock helps him into his coat.

“Mycroft, you’re freezing. The car, come on,” Sherlock mutters, and Mycroft is shocked into silence when Sherlock wraps an arm around him and pulls him close to his side. Sherlock rubs his arm up and down Mycroft’s and Mycroft swallows convulsively, the moment he thought he’d lost Sherlock on a loop in his mind. No one gives them a second glance, the desperate curl of Sherlock’s fingers around Mycroft’s sleeve lost to everyone else.

John is still standing. “Just a minute – why are we getting in a car with a murderer?”

“He’s with MI6, John,” Sherlock snaps, hurrying to the car waiting outside. “Come on.”

In the car Anthea produces steaming tea in paper cups. Mycroft finds himself in the middle of the backseat with the agent (Julian something, if he remembers correctly) on his right and Sherlock on his left. He can feel the adrenaline flowing out of him as his fingers tremble around the cup. John keeps fidgeting on the opposite backseat next to Anthea.

Against his better judgment, Mycroft lets his leg fall against Sherlock’s. They _are_ brothers, they’re far from inappropriately squeezed next to each other, and damn it, he nearly lost Sherlock a few minutes ago. He’ll take any reassurance he can find until he can crush his brother in his arms.

Julian is still apologising. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I tried holding the gun lightly to your neck, sir, but-”

“It’s fine. You did an excellent job, Mr...” Mycroft searches his memory. “Mr Steer.”

“Can someone explain this to me? How is Mary’s son working with MI6?”

“You actually believe he’s her son. I didn’t think she believed it herself, but apparently…” Sherlock trails off, leaning back, thigh warm against Mycroft’s.

Something aches in Mycroft’s solar plexus, and he drags his awareness from it and focuses on the warm leg next to his. He can barely talk. “I was completely focused on Sherlock’s plans for Magnussen after you got married, John, but Anthea decided to expand Mary’s intelligence parameters and found out Mary had given up a male newborn for adoption 24 years ago. A very powerful pressure point we could use later on, if we needed to. So-”

“Why? Why would you even look for a pressure point back then?”

Mycroft wonders if John is serious. “You don’t find her past reason enough?”

John visibly bristles. “She had already left her past behind by then.”

Mycroft’s patience snaps. “The day she shot Sherlock she was threatening Magnussen – how can you possibly think she had left her past behind?”

Sherlock steps in. “People like her can’t afford to completely leave their old lives behind, John. They always have several plans and identities to fall back on. In case they need to disappear. They can hop back and forth between identities, even.”

“I see – and none of that was reason for Mycroft to warn me. No, much more fun to let me marry her and gather _pressure points_. Do you have pressure points on me as well then, Mycroft?”

Anthea clears her throat. “Standard procedure, Dr Watson. At any rate, our people dropped murmurs in Mary’s circles that her son had managed to trace her and was trying to reach her. She did her own checks and found all the clues we had planted for her.”

“Sorry, sorry -- why couldn’t you just bloody _tell_ me I was dating an assassin, Mycroft?”

“You wouldn’t have believed him,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft bristles, suddenly extremely irritated by Sherlock’s patience with John. “I tried to warn you before the Richard Brook exposé, John. You thought it was all very hilarious.”

John laughs mirthlessly. “Well, way to hold a grudge. Do you keep pressure points on Sherlock too in case he-”

Mycroft interrupts him smoothly at the rage flashing in Sherlock’s beautiful eyes. “If you’re not interested in finding out what happened to Mary, John, do tell us. I’m not in a terribly talkative mood myself after very nearly losing my brother _again_.”

Anthea clears her throat again. “After Ms Morstan’s incarceration, our people in prison kept feeding her more false information. Just scraps. That her son was in contract killing and would help her escape if she agreed to start him in her old career. Entirely plausible. We did prepare Julian, but we never intended to break Ms Morstan out of prison. There was only ever the remotest of possibilities that Julian might have to actually meet her in person.”

Mycroft tastes metal in his mouth. If he never hears that woman’s name again, it will be too soon. His fingers itch with the need to rub Sherlock’s back and make sure there are no bruises marring the skin. He needs to feel Sherlock’s pulse under his lips, Sherlock’s heart beating against his. He grits his teeth and digs his nails into his palms.

John cocks his head back and stares out of the window for a moment. “Who helped her escape then?”

“Moriarty,” Anthea says. “He kidnapped Julian and arranged Ms Morstan’s escape. She thought her son had come through. Moriarty clearly knew only one man in London could find Julian,” she says, glancing fondly at Sherlock.

For once, Mycroft shares, albeit begrudgingly, the furious disbelief on John’s face. “So you went voluntarily to Moriarty? Again?”

“I hardly went to him, John. I solved the puzzle he sent me. He thinks he’s…”

“Wooing you,” Mycroft snaps. “And you encouraged him to think you approve.”

“I didn’t have another option, Mycroft. You only told me about your plan today.”

“For god’s sake, you two can bicker later. Right now…” John trails off as the car glides to a stop. “Right, I’m going to see Mary.”

*** *** ***

Irene Adler glares at them the instant they walk into her room. Stripped of makeup, she looks shockingly young and almost as deathly pale as Sherlock, her long hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders. Mycroft struggles to reconcile her with the aloof dominatrix who had once almost brought England to its knees.

“Come to finish me off?” She glares at Mycroft, not Sherlock, he notes. “In the space of less than an hour I was jabbed and shot on your property, Mr Holmes. What’s next? Poison?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Mycroft replies, taking the chair next to her bed, watching Sherlock plant a slim hip on the mattress by her feet. “If I were going to kill you, I would at least make sure your makeup and hair were done impeccably. You did save Sherlock’s life.”

“I fell,” she says, teeth clenched. “Stop giggling inside your head, Sherlock. I do _not_ look that different.”

Sherlock laughs hysterically, and Mycroft watches the crinkles in his brother’s cheek, watches him slap his own thigh and lets the precious laughter wash over him.

Irene glares again, albeit with the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Might I add that you and your brother don’t look normal either? How much moisture do your clothes actually hold?”

“You idiot,” Sherlock says, sobering up. “You took a bullet for me. I don’t believe it.”

“I _fell_. I tripped and fell.”

Sherlock grins. “So you were trying to escape the hostage situation? With the kitchen knife they found on you?”

She huffs. “Perfectly good weapon. I heard her telling you to go to the back. I thought I might as well be armed.”

“Miss Adler,” Mycroft says, swallowing his hesitation. “Thank you. I will forever be in your debt,” he says quietly, before reaching out and lifting her hand to his lips.

She stares at him in shock but composes herself impressively fast. “So I save Sherlock and I don’t even get a hug.”

“I thought you fell,” Sherlock adds dryly.

“Of course I did. But I lost a sea of blood. I could’ve died. For all I know I died and they brought me back to life.”

“It’s a tiny gash,” Sherlock insists, then his face turns serious. “We just spoke to your doctor. She says despite the blood loss you were incredibly lucky.”

“Lucky? I’m going to be in a wheelchair for three days. I’m going to have to use crutches and walking sticks for three months.”

“Your wound will heal completely though. You won’t even have a scar. You’re incredibly lucky the bullet lodged under the skin. I can’t believe you took a bullet for me.”

“I _fell_.”

Mycroft smiles in spite of himself. “Of course you did. I’m afraid we need to get you out of England as soon as possible, Ms Adler. A doctor will accompany you on the private jet we’ve arranged for you, and I promise you the best therapist I know in the USA to personally oversee your recovery.”

Mycroft senses Sherlock’s eyes on him – their gazes lock and his heart skips a beat at the tenderness there.

“That smell. In the hall. What was it?”

Sherlock’s head whips around to Irene. “What?”

She raises an eyebrow. “That smell. After you jabbed me, Mr Holmes helped me to the sofa.” She peers at Sherlock curiously. “How on earth can you attack someone right afterwards? Don’t you get sleepy? Of course you don’t. Just my luck.”

A sharp jolt of heat licks Mycroft’s insides as Sherlock flushes.

Irene smirks. “Very efficient, of course, for both of you. Just remember to air your brother’s hall out next time, you maniac.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “Ms Adler-”

“I appreciate what you did about the… personal message I sent, Mr Holmes. Mind you, I know Sherlock talked you into it. And you,” she says, turning to Sherlock, “perhaps you could hug me quickly before your brother changes his mind and has them put poison in my painkillers.”

Mycroft finds he almost doesn’t begrudge her the hug. Almost.

“I must say your brother looks remarkably less murderous towards me today. The most dangerous man in London smiled at me, and I took a bullet-”

“Fell,” Sherlock deadpans.

“-for the prettiest man in London. Not bad. So you no longer find my friendship with Sherlock so distasteful, Mr Holmes?”

“I’m a reasonable man, Ms Adler. I’m glad Sherlock has such a devoted friend. In fact I applaud your friendship.” He stands up and lifts Irene’s hand to his lips again briefly. “As long as you never meet in person without me, you only communicate with Sherlock through me. And Sherlock never communicates back.”

“Sherlock, dear,” Irene says. “You don’t think your big brother’s just a tad… obsessive?”

“Not nearly obsessive enough,” Sherlock says darkly.

As they leave the room Mycroft doesn’t get a chance to ask Sherlock how on _earth_ he could mean that, when he is pretty much Mycroft’s entire world: Anthea pounces on them with fresh coffee and…

“Chocolate?”

“You’ll need this, sir,” she says dryly, handing Sherlock another Milky Way. “The Prime Minister called twice to say he was glad you’re fine.”

“Oh lord. Thank you for not giving me that call.”

“He’s going to call again,” Anthea tells him apologetically. She examines their soggy clothes and purses her lips. “I can have someone bring a change of clothes here.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “We’ll be at Baker Street before you can get someone down here. I’ll give you something to wear, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nods and sits on the nearest waiting chair next to Sherlock. “None of this would have been possible without you, Anthea. Thank you.”

“I’m glad you’re both safe, sir.”

Sherlock looks around them. “Where’s John?”

Anthea smiles tightly. “Inquiring. Burial arrangements.”

Mycroft is hit with a fresh wave of fury at John and his very skewed sense of loyalty – or sentiment, he can’t tell, which is in itself infuriating enough. “By the way, unless Moriarty himself drops in tomorrow and asks for me, I’m taking tomorrow off.”

“For an incident that didn’t even last one hour?” Anthea looks scandalised.

“Anthea, he could catch pneumonia,” Sherlock says. A ridiculous stretch – he will probably have a runny nose, a nasty cold for a few days at worst. It doesn’t matter – even if he wakes up good as new, he’s not putting more physical distance than he has to between himself and Sherlock.

He almost lost the reason he wakes up every morning. Anthea will never understand that.

Sherlock is looking at the agent, who is sitting down the corridor darting nervous glances towards them… towards Mycroft, specifically. He beckons him over.

“Julian Steer. Another one, sir,” Anthea repeats in amusement.

_Oh for…_

This gets Sherlock’s attention. “Another one? What do you...”

Anthea watches, bemused, as Sherlock narrows his eyes at Julian, who has rushed over immediately. The clues on Anthea’s face are clear enough, without the telltale flush on the man’s cheeks, the blown pupils, or the way his eyes keep darting to Mycroft’s mouth.

_Oh, for crying out loud._

Mycroft doles out the barest hint of a smile. “Thank you for all your efforts, Mr Steer. The unfortunate kidnapping aside, of course.”

“Of course, I’m sorry, thank you, sir, thank you. It was an honour to work personally with you, sir. I’m so glad you’re safe, sir. I never would have forgiven myself if-”

Sherlock clears his throat. “We’re soaking wet. Can we at least sit in the car where it’s warm?”

Mycroft smiles blandly at the agent. “Thank you again, Mr Steer. Anthea, we’ll wait in the car. Please let Dr Watson know.”

Anthea’s eyes are absolutely dancing with mirth. Mycroft has no idea what she finds so hilarious every time a new, young addition to the team develops one of those extremely inconvenient crushes on Mycroft. Mycroft groans mentally. He can understand people who are after him for his position, but ridiculous crushes are beyond even his brain.

By the time they reach the car Sherlock has touched his elbow and back possessively on 11 different pretexts. Mycroft wonders how he has failed to see such a delicious advantage of all those crushes. Perhaps he’ll bring up a few later. In bed, preferably.

When Sherlock closes the glass partition, however, Mycroft can’t help clamping down on a squeak of disappointment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock says fiercely, eyes glittering. “I want to kiss you until you scream – I can’t stop seeing that gun pointed at you, and you decide to give away rides tonight of all nights. You could’ve sent another car for John and Anthea and _Mr Steer_.”

“I… I miscalculated.” At Sherlock’s incredulous stare, he adds, “You do tend to make an exception for sentiment when it comes to John, Sherlock. I thought you’d like to… console him, if you can call it that, as incensed as I am by the mere idea-”

“I want to mark you.”

Mycroft’s head whips up. “What?”

“I want to mark you.” Sherlock’s nostrils flare. “ _Another one?_ How many have there been?”

Mycroft stares at him. Sherlock is seriously jealous? As if Mycroft could _look_ at anyone, as if anyone could hold a candle to him. The idea is so ludicrous Mycroft finds himself grinning.

“I can’t stand it,” Sherlock snarls. “I saw how he was looking at you and I can’t stand it. God, Mycroft, you’re taken. He can’t look at you like that, like… like…”

Sherlock clenches his hands, and Mycroft’s giddy heart skips a beat at Sherlock’s possessiveness.

_Not nearly obsessive enough._

Mycroft’s own possessiveness flares scorchingly and he finds he can’t possibly wait until they get home. He has to kiss Sherlock right now. “Close the other partition.”

Heat flashes in Sherlock’s eyes as his hand shoots toward the button, just as John opens the door and climbs in, followed by Anthea and Julian.

Sherlock immediately slides in next to Mycroft, his warmth playing hell with Mycroft’s nerves. Mycroft crosses his legs, supremely irritated at himself. They could have been on their way home already.

“They thought she’d make it. There were a number of other surgeries lined up. But...” John trails off.

Mycroft forces himself not to point out that the only way for Mary to be alive right now is for Sherlock to be dead. For the umpteenth time Mycroft finds himself incapable of following the logic of John’s thinking.

His irritation vanishes when Sherlock mutters, “I need to close my eyes for a minute,” then sinks back a little and casually stretches his arm behind Mycroft’s head, resting it against Mycroft’s nape. Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed, the warmth from Sherlock’s arm spreading to his very core.

He is suddenly hit all over again by the terrible way the evening could have ended and he lets his head fall back, trapping Sherlock’s arm underneath his head. He’s going to make as much use as he can get away with of the fact that they’re brothers until they reach Baker Street.

“Are you both going to fall asleep in the car? Can’t you hear me? Is there any way of finding out if she has any family, Mycroft?”

Mycroft finds he cannot trust himself to speak, and gratefully lets Anthea take over.

Sherlock adjusts his arm, letting his palm lie upwards, his fingers brushing Mycroft’s hair with every gentle movement of the car. A sharp ache thrums and pricks through Mycroft's veins, and he spends the rest of the ride to Baker Street soaking up Sherlock's quiet caresses and warmth.

*** *** ***

“Mycroft, I’m afraid the only thing I have that will fit you is an old brand new pair of jeans. I mean I bought them a long time ago but I never wore them,” Sherlock says loudly for John’s benefit as he follows Mycroft into the bedroom in 221b.

John hovers outside the room, however, then apparently makes up his mind and steps inside. When Sherlock puts two fluffy towels on the bed next to the dry pile of clothes, John pulls him into a tight hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe. Next time you decide to meet Moriarty, you don’t have to go alone.”

Mycroft averts his eyes, _seething_ , when he hears feet bounding up the stairs. _For god’s sake._ Presumably Sherlock’s entire fan club is downstairs.

Lestrade appears inside Sherlock’s door. “I thought I heard something – they’re up here, Mrs Hudson.” He nods at Mycroft deferentially before patting John’s arm awkwardly and enveloping Sherlock in a hug. “Oi, you’re soaking wet. I say, could you two spare a minute? Mrs Hudson’s in a right state-”

“You showed her the text I sent you? Good grief, Lestrade,” Sherlock glances at Mycroft, trapped.

“I didn’t actually. I thought I’d spare her the worry.”

Mycroft reasons that the sooner Sherlock gets down the sooner he’ll get back up here. “Thank you for the spare clothes, Sherlock. I’ll go ahead and get changed first.”

Mycroft dries himself impatiently before getting dressed fast, royally galled by the whole of mankind. How much more reassurance does everyone need before they let Sherlock up to get out of his wet clothes, for crying out loud? He can’t think-

Sherlock opens the door and shuts it behind him.

“Come here,” Mycroft gasps, pulling Sherlock finally, _finally_  into his arms and into a crushing kiss, hands fisted tightly in Sherlock’s soggy coat. “I should’ve made you get your back checked in hospital. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Sherlock breathes against his lips. “I am now.”

Mycroft is starved out of his mind, licking one last sloppy kiss into Sherlock's mouth while his fingers tear open Sherlock's zipper, before sinking to his knees and swallowing Sherlock's cock into his mouth.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, jerking and thickening further on Mycroft's tongue. 

"Fuck my mouth, Sherlock. Come in my mouth. Please, Sherlock, _please,_ " Mycroft begs in garbled words around Sherlock's cock, hands on Sherlock's arse, out of his mind with need.

Sherlock gasps and thrusts one, two, three times before spilling into Mycroft's throat. Mycroft drinks it all, milking every drop out of his brother's spasming cock, suckling him through the aftershocks, suckling even as Sherlock's cock softens on his tongue. Mycroft keeps sucking until Sherlock gasps above him and curls slender, trembling fingers in Mycroft's hair.

"Sorry... I'm sorry," Mycroft pants, letting Sherlock's soft cock slip out of his mouth, leaning the side of his head against Sherlock's hip and nudging his brother's exposed cock with his lips, lapping at the slit, letting Sherlock's scent wash all over him, proof that his brother's alive and well. And  _his._

"My," Sherlock says, shivering, no doubt too sensitive after coming yet making no move to tuck himself in or stop Mycroft from nosing and licking and panting all over his bare cock. "Let me get changed-"

In a haze, Mycroft sucks Sherlock's soft cock back into his mouth.

"-so you can... ah... take me home, Mycroft."

 _Home._ Mycroft rolls Sherlock's cock in his mouth, suckles on it one last time, then reluctantly lets his brother's cock slip out of mouth, shoving Sherlock's wet shirt up and burying his face in Sherlock's stomach. "I... Sorry-"

"Don't you dare."

Mycroft accepts Sherlock's hand pulling him up. He feels Sherlock's eyes studying him as he peels Sherlock's soggy clothes off and dries him off, helping Sherlock into dry clothes. Sherlock doesn't once mention that he is perfectly capable of dressing himself, doesn't deny Mycroft the desperate kisses Mycroft peppers on his pale, bare skin before it disappears under another dark suit.

The moment Sherlock is fully dressed, Mycroft gathers him into a desperate hug, burying his nose in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock immediately wraps his arms around Mycroft's neck, their hearts hammering against each other.

“Sherlock, your back – are you sure it’s-”

“I’m not the one who stood in the cold without a coat," Sherlock says gently against the side of Mycroft's neck. "I’m fine, My.”

Mycroft inhales Sherlock’s scent desperately. “I nearly lost you. God, Sherlock, I nearly lost you.”

Sherlock’s mouth finds his in a brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue, and Mycroft surrenders gladly. Sherlock’s graceful hands push Mycroft against the wall, his clever fingers snaking beneath Mycroft's shirt. The pad of Sherlock's thumb brushes the head of Mycroft's cock, leaking and trapped past his waistband. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss, taking his delicious mouth away to lift Mycroft's shirt and swirl his thumb in Mycroft's slit... before lifting the thick precome on his thumb to those lips and sucking it.

Mycroft's legs fall open, nearly giving out, and Sherlock pushes a leg between Mycroft's to steady him as he trails kisses along Mycroft's bottom lip, jaw, neck.

"This is a very bad… idea,” Mycroft whispers, arching his neck under Sherlock’s hot lips.

Sherlock pins Mycroft’s wrists against the wall, drags his thigh against Mycroft’s crotch.

“Ah… Sherlock, I’m so hard I can barely _stand_ -”

“I can help you with that-”

“No,” Mycroft gasps as Sherlock brushes his slit again. Mycroft could  _come_ from this, just this.

"I can suck you off-"

“If I start I won’t be able to stop.”

“Let me finish what I started on the sofa,” Sherlock purrs into his mouth, smearing Mycroft's precome all over his cockhead and bringing his thumb up between their mouths. “I did promise you to-”

A noise. The door handle turns.

“What… What the fuck?”

Sherlock tears his mouth from Mycroft’s but doesn’t pull back, his chest heaving against Mycroft’s. “Shut the fucking door, John.”

Mycroft closes his eyes, tugging his wrist free. Sherlock lets him but remains standing practically between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock steps back. Mycroft turns his back on John, _livid._ The nerve - simply barging into Sherlock’s bedroom. He obviously thought Mycroft would be downstairs already. Mycroft grits his teeth. Perhaps a little drama is a small price to pay for staking his claim.

Someone knocks loudly on the door. “Sherlock, enough primping. We got Chinese. Hot tea, hot food. Come on.”

“We’ll be right there, Lestrade,” Sherlock calls out. “John, let’s not cause a scene. Come on.”

Mycroft can picture the war of glares. Someone knocks again and Sherlock barks, “Oh for… Just let the food get cold, for god’s sake.”

Sherlock’s light steps leave the room in a huff. The mingled voices from Mrs Hudson’s flat drift into the room until Mycroft hears the door click shut.

“Right. Whenever you’re ready.”

Mycroft turns around in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

John snorts. “Forget about the manners shit. Won’t work anymore. What the fuck was that?”

“I believe it’s none of your-”

“No, not going to work. He’s your _brother._ The one thing you couldn’t have, eh? Is that it, you sick pervert?”

Mycroft feels his lips set in a tight line. “Again, I believe this is none of your-”

John’s derisive snigger cuts him off. “I’m not moving out, by the way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Another snigger. “You can _beg_ all you want, but I’m not moving out. People come to us here. Sherlock Holmes _and Dr Watson_. You can have him at the end of the day, if he’s not hunting criminals or racing in alleys or having dinner with _me._ He’s not going to give up his work, is he? He’s still going to spend all his day here. And you better believe I’m going to _use_ that to undo whatever filthy brainwashing you’ve done.”

The venom in John’s words startles him, much to Mycroft’s dismay. “I would have thought an ex-veteran was more noble than that.”

“Oh, I’d never steal another person’s chick… or bloke. Even if it was Moriarty Sherlock wanted to shag.”

“How admirable.”

“Because Moriarty – he’s a lunatic, but he’s not fucking his younger brother.”

“Don’t be crass.”

“What, you’re not fucking him? Don’t get me wrong – I’d expose you to the world in a heartbeat if I could. You don’t scare me. But it would hurt Sherlock. Right. You brainwashed him? I’ll brainwash him back.”

Sherlock opens the door. “Come _on…_ ” His clear gaze narrows as he takes in John’s military stance. Mycroft attempts to walk out but Sherlock stops him inside the door and peers into his face. “Since when do you care what anyone else thinks?”

Mycroft smiles tightly. Sherlock can pretend that John is merely anyone to him, but Mycroft won’t join him in that charade.

“Mycroft.”

“Please give my apologies to Mrs Hudson, Sherlock. I think I’d rather head straight home. I’ll send a car. Please take it…” Mycroft hesitates. “If… Well.”

Sherlock searches his face. “I’m coming home, Mycroft.”

John laughs a mirthless, half-aborted laugh.

“You could be a fraction less rude, John,” Sherlock snaps.

Warmth, albeit watery warmth, flows in Mycroft’s veins despite the icy dread in his gut.

Sherlock follows him out until he’s about to step into the living room, the only area out of surveillance frame. “Hey,” Sherlock says softly, tangling their fingers and turning Mycroft around towards him. Mycroft’s eyes unwillingly fall on John, who is leaning smugly against the wall. John looks at their linked fingers and purses his lips in disgust.

Mycroft is _livid._ He fists his free hand in Sherlock’s curls and pulls him into a long kiss. “I’ll give you a chance to clear this up.”

Sherlock smiles against his lips.

“Good night, Sherlock, John,” he says as pleasantly as he can, and leaves.

As soon as he climbs into the car, his amused smile slips. The car is silent and tired and cold without Sherlock, a precious, invisible glow in the stupid flat the car is steadily gliding away from.

*** *** ***

Mycroft sits down slowly on the foot of his bed in the dark, carefully. It occurs to him that if he is careful enough, none of the gnarled despair inside him will tumble out. He’s not interested in switching on the lights.

He’s freezing, he realises dispassionately, despite the dry, warm clothes. He presses a clammy hand to his chest. There’s a constant punch to his solar plexus that won’t stop.

 _Oh._ He’s not freezing. He’s terrified.

He buries his face in his hands, but John materialises behind his eyelids. A broken shell of a man who limped into Sherlock’s life and snapped up his attention and loyalty. Mycroft screws his eyes shut tighter but another memory accosts him, John’s undaunted military stance in the abandoned warehouse. The beginning of what Mycroft had thought was the happiest part of Sherlock’s life.

It opens a floodgate of memories that have tortured Mycroft over the past few years.

Mycroft can’t unsee the childlike wonder in Sherlock’s lovely eyes as 221b stopped being yet another flatshare and became _home,_ as the flatmate didn’t move out, in between shooting a man for Sherlock, and lavishing praise on his brain yet railing at severed thumbs and living room explosions in the same breath, making Sherlock grin wider in bemusement and hover closer to John, unable to figure him out. In between hurling smart-arse comebacks to Mycroft and offering to blow himself up along with Moriarty for Sherlock and running away handcuffed to Sherlock.

Then adamantly refusing to believe Sherlock was a fake, when the entire imbecilic, ungrateful city believed it.

And Mycroft can’t touch him, even though it would be the easiest thing to crush him in the blink of an eye, without a trace. He can’t, because that side of John is the only side Sherlock is prepared to see.

Because Sherlock can’t _see_ that John punched him when he came back from hell, and that out of everyone it was only John who had sulked rather than celebrated. Sherlock can’t see what Mycroft watched, horrified, as his brother practically crawled up the stairs one week after he had flatlined, immediately after exposing Mary to John, only for John to scream and sulk and whine, until the paramedics _Sherlock_ had called dashed in while Sherlock’s heart was giving out for the second time.

If John can do all that, if he can kill for Sherlock yet take back the woman who shot him, if he can threaten Mary unarmed then suffer palpable anguish over her death (even though it saved Sherlock’s life – Sherlock’s _life_ , damn it), then Mycroft can’t read him. Which means that he can’t prepare for what John will do to sabotage what Mycroft… _cannot_ lose, oh dear god, cannot lose.

A gasp wrenches itself out of Mycroft’s mouth, and he presses shaking fingers to his lips.

And isn’t it hilarious to realise this now: That he, the smartest man he knows, the fucking British government, doesn’t know how to keep the only thing he cannot afford to lose.

The front door slams. Mycroft’s heart hammers painfully as he hears footsteps he would know anywhere rush up the stairs.

Sherlock comes to a standstill inside the door and looks at him strangely.

Mycroft tries to swallow around the lump in his throat at the waves of hostility rolling off Sherlock, before he realises. An argument with John. So it’s not directed at him, not yet, _oh god_ not yet.

“Mycroft…” Mycroft can’t breathe as he watches Sherlock kneeling in front of him, warm palms splayed on Mycroft’s knees. “How? How can you sit here and… Mycroft, you were rocking yourself back and forth. What the fuck are you grieving for?”

“I… I wasn’t-”

But Sherlock kisses him and Mycroft nearly sobs with relief, clinging to his brother and losing himself in the kiss.

“I _told_ you,” Sherlock says savagely as Mycroft chases his mouth, the distance unbearable. “I told you it’s always been like this for me. I _told_ you I’m so in love with you I want my fucking ring on your finger. Just us, Mycroft – how can anything _anyone_ spews out change that? No, _no –_ you still don’t believe it. I’m yours, My, I’m yours. And you will only ever be mine.”

Mycroft pulls Sherlock into a desperate embrace. He can’t find his voice.

Sherlock stills in his arms, his fingers combing through Mycroft’s hair. He pulls back to peer at Mycroft, worry flashing in his eyes. “You’re shaking.”

“I almost lost you tonight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock holds his gaze, and Mycroft can see that Sherlock knows Mycroft is not only talking about death by a gun. Sherlock pulls him to his feet and presses his body flush against Mycroft’s, kissing him long and slow. “Mycroft, three years ago Moriarty said he’d burn the heart out of me.”

The jarring change of subject rattles Mycroft, floods his mouth with the foul taste of the horrible past three years, and his fingers claw at Sherlock’s clothes – skin, he wants Sherlock’s skin against his. Living, breathing proof that Sherlock is alive and safe and here. With _him._

“I was scared out of my mind he meant _you._ ” Sherlock’s voice is hushed as Mycroft undresses him. “I thought he must’ve found out. Who _else_ could he possibly mean? That day on the roof… God, Mycroft, I was terrified he’d say you were in danger. But this evening…”

_This evening I almost lost you._

Their clothes come off in a frenzy, Sherlock melting bonelessly under Mycroft’s touch. He pushes Sherlock onto the bed and slips a thigh between Sherlock’s, pressing reverent kisses on the pulse fluttering in Sherlock’s neck.

_You’re here. And you’re safe. And you keep saying you’re mine._

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock says shakily, and Mycroft lifts his head from Sherlock’s neck. “I thought I knew what having the heart burnt out of me meant. But I didn’t know. Until I saw that gun pointed at your head…”

“I want to be inside you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Are you… Aren’t you tired? We could just sleep. I’m tired too.”

“How tired are you?”

Wordlessly, Sherlock spreads his legs under Mycroft, his hand grasping blindly at the nightstand drawer.

Mycroft crushes their mouths together, everything churning inside him threatening to whirl out. His fingers find the lube in Sherlock’s hand and he fumbles it open.

“Yes, yes. Oh, hurry.” Sherlock arches around Mycroft’s fingers as Mycroft nudges _that_ spot inside him. Mycroft tries to hang on to his sanity as he watches Sherlock writhe and gasp and bear down around his fingers.

He tries, really tries, but it’s the shortest preparation he’s given Sherlock. Mycroft frantically slicks his own cock before shoving Sherlock’s legs on his shoulders and sinking into his brother’s exquisite heat, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s knee.

Sherlock’s dark curls spill over the pillow with every thrust Mycroft makes, delicious gasps tumbling out of his perfect mouth. Mycroft is inside his brother and it’s not close enough – he can’t unsee a gun nearly touching Sherlock’s curls, can’t unsee Sherlock sprawled on the grass, blood pooling out underneath him, not his but it could’ve been, it could’ve been.

Something fierce and desperate and _hungry_ shoots through Mycroft. He’s going to break, and Sherlock _sees_ and rescues him, throwing his head back, slender hands scrambling to grip the headboard above as he pushes against Mycroft and squeezes his arse around Mycroft's cock. Mycroft’s hands shoot out and pin Sherlock’s wrists against the headboard as his cock thrusts deeper into his brother, and he’s forgotten how to breathe, every drag against Sherlock’s tight walls torture and relief.

“Mark me,” Sherlock pants.

Mycroft nearly comes, his mouth open against Sherlock’s. “Everyone will see.”

 _“Yes.”_ Sherlock tilts his hips and bears down further, his cock trapped and dripping between them, and it shreds Mycroft’s sanity.

His fingernails drag down Sherlock’s arms, his fingers fisting in Sherlock’s curls as his mouth closes on the side of Sherlock’s neck and sucks. Hot liquid gushes against his belly as his brother arches against him, clamping down on Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft gasps against Sherlock’s neck, grinds his teeth around a sob as his orgasm crashes through him. His cock keeps pulsing deep inside his brother, the blinding pleasure turning him inside out as Sherlock shakes beneath him and they hold on to each other.

Aftershocks are still exploding inside him when he lifts his face from Sherlock’s neck and kisses him, long and slow and sloppy. Sherlock looks as utterly _wrecked_ as Mycroft feels. Mycroft unclenches his fingers from Sherlock’s soft curls. He loses himself in the kiss, trailing his fingers along the inside of…

He breaks the kiss to survey the scratch lines marring the soft skin of Sherlock’s arms, horrified at himself.

“I… Disinfectant, I think… I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“I’m fine.”

“I _scratched_ you-”

“And I came immediately all over us both,” Sherlock purrs, stretching beneath Mycroft in a delicious, sated sprawl. A hot jolt of possessiveness rushes through Mycroft at the bruise blooming on Sherlock’s neck.

Mycroft kisses silent apologies along the inside of Sherlock’s arm.

“It was brilliant. Stop fretting,” Sherlock murmurs, cradling the side of Mycroft’s cheek and pressing their mouths together, soft and open-mouthed and perfect.

 _You’re safe. You’re fine, and you’re safe, and you’re in my arms._ Mycroft loses himself in the kiss, trying to drag his heart back before it spills into his brother’s mouth.

He arranges his half-asleep brother next to him and tucks the blankets around them. Sherlock burrows his nose into Mycroft’s neck and sighs.

Mycroft presses a hand to the center of his chest, wondering if it’s physically possible to die of happiness.

*** *** ***

He wakes up starving with a shockingly insistent bladder. 

Sherlock is wrapped around him like ivy. Mycroft presses his lips to the crown of his brother’s head and disentangles himself gently from the warm limbs.

He shivers as soon as he’s out of bed, and pulls his dressing gown haphazardly around himself as he dashes to the ensuite.

He pads back to the room wondering what time it is. Noon, according to the clock, which still doesn’t explain the gold shimmering behind the heavy damask curtains. A sunny day in March?

Mycroft feels wrung out to the bone yet refreshingly light. Yesterday’s events are startlingly clear in his awareness. Their nightmarish edge, however, is immeasurably dulled by the vision gracing his bed.

There’s nothing to do today, nowhere they have to be, no one they need to hide from here in the house. He doesn’t even have a runny nose. Neither does Sherlock, Mycroft finds when he leans over and inspects the breathing pattern from that perfect nose.

Incredible. Some things do indeed boost immunity.

He peeks out of the curtain. Against all odds, it is indeed shaping up to be a spectacularly sunny day in the middle of March.

Sherlock is facing away from the window, so Mycroft pulls back the curtains a crack and turns to look at the light trickling in toward his brother, a celebratory whirlwind gathering in his gut.

His feet are moving before he realises it. He knows Sherlock better than he knows himself, so he doesn’t need to rummage anywhere. His fingers extract Sherlock’s wallet from the clothes crumpled on the floor.

He takes off the gold ring he usually wears. It would never do to appear available to the sweep of morons who fancy being partners to the most powerful man in London, but he no longer has any use for this ring. Sliding the nightstand drawer open softly, he places the ring inside. One day Sherlock might be interested in figuring out what has always been engraved on the inside, but not today.

Today he slides Sherlock’s ring around his finger, giddy with happiness.

Mycroft quells the ludicrous vision of Sherlock sliding this ring around Mycroft’s finger where everyone can see, where he can lay the rest of his life forever at the feet of this exquisite creature who owns every millimetre of Mycroft’s world.

Good. Silly, overeager heart swallowed back down, traitorous prickling blinked away.

He goes to crank up the heating. Today promises to be bizarrely warm for March, but the room needs to be toasty warm for what Mycroft has in mind (just for a few hours, he tells the snarling civil servant inside him).

Mrs Hudson had intercepted him last night, he remembers now, and invited him to a party she will throw for Sherlock at 221b Baker Street tomorrow. One week after the first party, where Mycroft’s most precious dreams were handed to him in a kiss in Sherlock’s room.

He doesn’t know where his aloof self has gone. He must be watching Mycroft from somewhere, horrified. Because Mycroft is actually considering going. Correction: They’re going. Even the idea of John and his threats fails to dampen his high spirits today, he finds.

He spends the entire time he’s brushing his teeth admiring the ring. He catches sight of his face in the mirror and finds himself grinning like a loon. He schools his face and raises an amused eyebrow at himself, only to find himself swallowing back the prickling again.

Thirty minutes after he makes a quick phone call, a car drops off a breakfast basket and two chilled champagne bottles. He hurries upstairs with everything. He really should let Sherlock rest, but he can’t get an old fantasy out of his head. And they have all day to rest.

He has no plans to let Sherlock out of the bedroom today. He will keep him entertained and bring him off and tease him and wait on him hand and foot. If he could, he wouldn’t even let him out of bed.

Sherlock is lying in bed, his nude body bathed in sunlight. His glossy curls are splashed on the pillow, one slender arm is flung over his eyes, the other stretched over his head on the pillow. Golden specks of sunlight are floating around him, drawing warm, shimmering patterns on Sherlock’s smooth skin. Mycroft’s eyes follow them down Sherlock’s neck, chest, down the dip of his flat belly to the sheet pooled between his legs, exposing one graceful leg bent against the blankets.

Mycroft holds his breath, afraid of disturbing the exquisite scene. He treads softly and places the breakfast tray carefully on the nightstand, then steps out of his dressing gown.

He pads to the bed and settles himself between Sherlock’s spread eagled legs.

Mycroft pulls off the sheet, hoping… _Yes._ When Mycroft woke up an erection had been digging into his thigh, but now Sherlock’s cock has softened again. It only proves that Sherlock is still tired, but Mycroft will let Sherlock spend the rest of the day asleep, if he wants, to make up for this old fantasy.

Sherlock’s flaccid cock fits completely in Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft rolls the soft cock in his mouth and suckles on it lazily, growing harder against the sheets with the intoxicating pleasure. He takes himself in hand at the dizzying sensation of Sherlock’s cock growing rapidly heavier and longer on his tongue.

Sherlock moans, hips bucking before he’s even awake. His musk floods Mycroft’s nostrils as his cock eventually fills Mycroft’s mouth, the precome drizzling on his tongue, and Mycroft is reduced to helpless moans as he jerks himself off rough and hard.

“Ah…” Sherlock’s gasp is husky with sleep and arousal. “What… Mycroft?”

Mycroft swallows around him. He’d suck Sherlock’s delicious cock all day if Sherlock could bear it, he thinks wistfully, recognising the telltale quiver of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock’s hand stumbles in Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft raises his free hand and tangles their fingers.

“Oh… Oh god, My, ah… Amazing. Is that…” Sherlock’s voice falters, breaks. “Is that… Mycroft, are you wearing my ring?”

Hot come floods Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft clings to the edge desperately until Sherlock has spent himself inside his mouth. Only then does he let go, scrambling up to push Sherlock's legs above his shoulders, barely managing to shove his cock snugly at Sherlock's hole before spilling, panting against the silky inside of Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock’s sweat and musk sending his senses into overload.

Mycroft’s breath is finally steadier. He kisses a slow, reverent trail up Sherlock’s thigh, belly, all the way up to his lips. Sherlock melts into the kiss.

“That was… You’re wearing the ring. My, you’re...” Sherlock trails off and kisses him again, which Mycroft discovers suits him just fine.

“I’m sorry I woke you-”

“You’re joking.”

Sherlock keeps brushing Mycroft’s ring finger. Mycroft senses that his brother is about to shatter, trying to contain himself. He pulls Sherlock into his arms and holds him. Sherlock’s fingers grip Mycroft’s ring finger tightly, and Mycroft remembers the baby brother who would hold on to Mycroft’s finger with his entire fist. He kisses Sherlock’s cheek. “I brought you breakfast... unless you want to go back to sleep?”

“I… No. Just a quick shower.” Sherlock tightens his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders before whispering into his ear. “I love you. Also, your come is still inside me from last night.”

“Don’t whisper.”

“What?”

“There’s no one else here. Don’t whisper it, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, before kissing him again.

*** *** ***

Mycroft sets the reheated breakfast on the dresser and wonders if Sherlock can sense him clamping down on the ridiculous urge to put a rose on the tray.

Sherlock leans back against the pillows in Mycroft’s dressing gown. Mycroft’s eyes fall shamelessly between his brother’s thighs. When Mycroft drags his eyes up to meets his gaze, Sherlock holds his arms out.

Mycroft crosses the room in two strides.

“I want you too,” Sherlock says into the messy kiss. “I want you all the time.”

Mycroft slides a hand underneath the dressing gown, splays it possessively across his brother’s thigh. “Take it off then. I’d like to toast your safety.”

“We’re going to toast us first. Us.”

Mycroft leans over to the nightstand and takes a long sip from the champagne bottle and holds it in his mouth. He fists a hand in Sherlock’s silky curls, tipping his head backwards slightly. He brings his mouth above Sherlock’s parted red lips, letting the champagne trickle from his mouth into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock swallows and Mycroft watches the long neck with his bruise (his _mark_ ), mesmerised. He licks the champagne residue off Sherlock’s delicious pink tongue, his well-kissed lips.

When they come up for air, Mycroft realises that Sherlock is fingering his ring again. The shy hesitancy is extremely out of place on his brother’s beautiful features.

Sherlock bites his lip. “Just once. I won’t ask again.”

Mycroft gathers him in his arms. “You can ask for anything as many times as you want.”

“Just once, then.”

Mycroft gets up and fishes Sherlock’s ring out of his wallet.

Before he slides it on Sherlock’s finger, Sherlock holds his hand out. “Together.”

Beside himself, Mycroft pulls off his ring and holds his hand out to Sherlock. “I’m never taking it off again. Ever.”

“Never?” Sherlock’s perfect teeth bite down on a trembling bottom lip. His graceful fingers close around Mycroft’s wrist, the ring poised in Sherlock’s other hand. He raises dark eyes to Mycroft. “Tell me you believe it could happen one day. Please, Mycroft. Tell me you believe that. Tell me that you do.”

Mycroft intertwines their fingers, raises Sherlock’s left hand to his lips before pressing it flush against his heart. His fingers brush the cool metal of their rings, his brother’s warmth flooding him from head to toe. He slides the ring around Sherlock's finger. “I _do,_ Sherlock. I do.”

 


End file.
